


Third strike

by PaxterHobber



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Master/Slave, Misunderstandings, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Underage, Slavery, Stilinski Family Feels, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxterHobber/pseuds/PaxterHobber
Summary: “I don’t want him.” Stiles can’t help but hear the younger man growl from behind the closed door. His stomach drops. This is why it is never a good idea to buy someone a slave as a gift. It is like buying someone a dog, only not that cute and fluffy.In a world where werewolves are known and rule the society with an iron fist, Stiles is kidnapped and sold into slavery. His last chance is Derek, who is struggling to take care of himself, not to mention an unwanted slave.





	1. Chapter 1

“Wait here!” The man pushes Stiles inside the apartment and slams the door. He looks around but is too stressed to really explore his surroundings. Should he go kneel in the corner? Wringing his hands nervously, he decides to stay put.

“I don’t want him.” Stiles can’t help but hear the younger man growl from behind the closed door. His stomach drops. This is why it is never a good idea to buy someone a slave as a gift. It is like buying someone a dog, only not that cute and fluffy. Stiles shuffles quietly closer to the door and listens intently, straining to hear over his beating heart.

“Derek, my dear, he will be good for you, you’ll see. You know, to relieve some of the tension.” The man who bought him suggests slyly.

“No, absolutely not.” The other man – Derek apparently – says with a finality in his voice that makes Stiles’ panic rise. He can’t go back there.

There is a long silence, probably filled with a staring match.

“Fine,” the man sighs finally. “I’ll take him back. But it’s his third strike.”

“His what? Oh-”

Yeah, _oh_. The third time Stiles would be returned from a private placement. After that, slaves are sold to various corporations – sweatshops, mines, brothels. Stiles knows what happens to young boys with long eyelashes like him. He wants to burst through that door, fall on his knees and beg Derek, promise him that he wouldn’t even know he’s there but he doubts it would win him any points.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, fine! I’ll find someone who’ll take him.”

Before Stiles can take a step back, the door opens and Derek barrels in, almost colliding with him, stopping at the last moment.

Stiles immediately drops to his knees, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed. A perfect form. Not that Derek looks like a man that would appreciate it. There is tense silence, in which Stiles senses Derek’s gaze on him. He comes a step closer and takes a deep breath through his nose. Stiles fights the urge to fidget. Fucking werewolves. He only hopes he doesn’t smell too bad. Suddenly there’s a strong hand grasping him by the t-shirt, lifting him up.

“Get up!” Derek barks at him and drags him through the apartment into a small bathroom. He flings him inside and Stiles barely catches himself by the shower curtain.

“Take off the clothes,” Derek orders.

Stiles clutches desperately at his tattered t-shirt, looking frantically around for a way out. There is none. He has absolutely no chance against an angry werewolf. Whatever is about to happen will happen. The best chance for Stiles to survive is to submit but he’s having trouble getting his body to cooperate.

Before he can unfreeze, Derek turns around and leaves. He returns shortly and throws a bundle of clothes on the floor.

“Take a shower and throw the old clothes away, you stink.” With that he leaves again. Stiles slides down on the floor, his back against the cold tiles and curls into a ball. He tries to get his breathing under control. He hates, _hates_ being helpless and at the mercy of this stranger. His hands are numb and shaking from the adrenaline but he forces himself to take off the clothes and steps quickly into the shower.

He scrubs himself under the cold water, his teeth chattering. He uses the only soap there. Derek will probably appreciate if he smells like him. After he can’t take the cold anymore, he steps out and looks for a towel. There is only one, presumably Derek’s, and Stiles hesitates, working his lower lip nervously. He reopened some of the wound on his back during the shower, he can feel the blood trickling down his back. Derek probably wouldn’t be too happy to have blood on his towel so Stiles goes for the toilet paper.

His hands are shaking as he tries to dry himself as much as possible. The paper sticks on his wet skin and tears and Stiles feels his anxiety rise again. He’s making a mess and he’s taking too long. He crumples all the wet paper into a ball and throws it into the toilet, immediately cursing himself. Derek will definitely hear him flush it. Is he allowed to use the toilet? Derek only told him to take a shower. Stiles grits his teeth in frustration. If he’s going to flush, he might as well use the toilet. Who knows when he’ll get another chance.

After taking a piss and flushing, when Derek doesn’t barge angrily through the door, Stiles hurries to dress himself in the clothes crumpled on the floor. He’s still wet and the hard material chaffs at his abused back. There is not underwear, only a pair of tracksuits and a sweatshirt. They obviously belong to Derek and Stile swims in them. He rolls up the pants so as not to step on them and leaves the bathroom, not feeling any cleaner.

Stiles finally takes a better look at the apartment. It is furnished in modern, sterile style. Glass and metal table, black polished wood and fake leather. There are no pictures on the walls, no flowers, nothing that would suggest anyone lives here. The large room includes a kitchen in one of the corners, a couch and a couple of shelves with a few paperbacks lying around. A large flat TV is hung on the wall opposite to the couch.

“That door is my bedroom, don’t even think about going in there,” Derek interrupts his explorations, pointing to one of doors.

“I don’t want you sleeping on the couch so take the spare room. It’s, um, little messy, just move the stuff to a corner or something,” Derek mumbles.

“Yes, master”

“No.” Derek immediately snaps, making Stiles flinch. “Do not call me that!”

“Yes, Sir” Stiles corrects himself, staring at the floor.

“No, just- Derek, okay?”

“Yes, Derek.” Stiles says in the exact same tone.

“I can’t do this,” Derek mutters, more to himself than Stiles, and practically runs from the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

Stiles waits frozen in the middle of the room for a couple of minutes but when Derek doesn’t return, he breathes out in relief.  He starts to familiarize himself with the surrounding, systematically opening every drawer. There’s not much, some old magazines, takeout menus and some DVDs of films he’s never heard of that look like they were included for free in a box of cereal. He does find a WiFi router and checks if there’s login and password written on the bottom of the box. Maybe if he could get his hands on a tablet or laptop, he could send a message to his dad. But he knows that’s not very likely, Derek would have to be stupid to leave an unsecured device just lying around. Still, he stores the information in his head and decides to keep an eye out for any opportunity.

The cabinet under the sink hides Derek’s meagre cleaning supplies – an old dirty sponge, a torn piece of cloth and an almost empty bottle of a universal detergent. Inspection of the pantry and fridge does not yield much better results. There are some boxes of cereals, couple of canned soups and cheese with mold on it. Stiles doesn’t dare to throw it away so he just leaves it.

Next he rummages through the cabinets in the bathroom. Unsurprisingly, there isn’t a single plaster, pill or disinfection spray. Werewolves and their stupid healing. He twists and turns in front of the mirror, trying to see the damage to his back. Some of the welts are red and puffy and Stiles can only hope they won’t become infected.

He drinks his fill from the tap and returns to the main room. There isn’t anything else to do, so he just finds a spot in one of the corners and kneels down to wait for Derek’s return. He sits on his feet and rests against the wall. It might be a long wait, might as well make himself comfortable.

 

The sound of door closing cuts through Stiles’ slumber. He flails his hands, trying to get his bearings. Derek is standing in the middle of room, holding a take-out container in one hand, watching Stiles with a scowl.

“I told you to sleep in the spare room,” he snaps and sets the container on the kitchen counter. Stiles watches it wistfully, his mouth already watering. The last meal he had was last night, a bowl of gruel that tasted like cardboard. This, one the other hand, smells like grease and soy sauce and everything good.

“Actually, you said not to sleep on the couch, which I’m not, so…” Derek turns to him and Stiles instinctively covers his head to protect it against the blow. When nothing comes, he dares to look up and sees Derek watching with what Stiles is starting to understand is his default grumpy expression. Seriously, his mouth will be death of him one day. No wonder he couldn’t keep his previous masters.

“Well I’m telling you now. It’s late.” He heads to his bedroom but hesitates and turns back in the door.

“Um, what’s your name?”

Stiles has _whatever you wish it to be, master_ on the tip of his tongue but stops himself. He has a feeling Derek wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Stiles,” he says instead.

“What kind of name is that? No, don’t answer that. Go sleep to your room, Stiles. Good night.” With that he disappears into the room and closes the door behind him.

With a sight, Stiles gets up, groaning, as he tries to get his numb limbs to move. He limps to the kitchen and puts the food in the fridge with a heavy heart and a growling stomach. Finally he goes to what Derek referred to as _his_ room. The door opens only half-way and is blocked by the clutter lying on the floor. There are boxes upon boxes and something that might be a bed but is buried under a pile of old clothing and more boxes.

Stiles pushes some of the stuff around to make a little space on the floor. Then he curls up on the dusty carpet and immediately feels himself slipping into an exhausted sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Stiles, poor Derek:)

The next morning when he wakes up, Derek’s shoes and leather jacket are gone and the apartment is empty again. Stiles sits on the couch, trying to muster the mental and physical energy for the day ahead. He’s exhausted. His limbs feel like jelly and the hunger is making him nauseous. He heaves but of course nothing comes out.

He rummages through the pantry again. He finds an energy bar under some empty wrapings from ramen noodles. It feels all crumbled and is long past the expiration date. It is probably safe to assume that Derek doesn’t even know it’s there. Stiles inhales it in two bites, looking nervously at the door the whole time. Afterwards he drinks as much water from the tap as he can to fool his stomach into thinking it’s full. It doesn’t really work and the only thing Stiles achieves is that his stomach splashes with every step.

He wants to curl back on the floor and ignore the world until somebody comes and drags him away. But he’s come too far to give up. He tries to summon a memory of his dad, of the last time he saw him, the last time he spoke to him. Had he known it was the last time, he would have said something better than _I’m gonna go pee real quick_. Then again, Stiles still refused to accept it was the last time. He’ll figure it a out, he has to.

He slowly shuffles to the kitchen and gets the cleaning supplies. After a short deliberation, he decides to start in the bathroom. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, with lime scale covering all taps and the sink full of soap and toothpaste stains.

He’s in the middle of pulling out hair from the shower drain when he hears Derek calling his name. Stiles hurries to the living room, heart already pounding in anticipation.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks him, exasperatedly.

“Cleaning, ma- Derek.”

Stiles feels his heartbeat pickup at the dark look on Derek’s face.

“Don’t bother. There’s someone coming to see you in a minute. He’s interested in taking you, so… behave!” Derek growls.

Stiles fights the urge to roll his eyes. As much as he would love to make Derek’s life a little more difficult, he can’t imagine anything good coming out of pissing off his master. And if Derek found him a new private owner, it has to be better than a brothel. It has to.

There’s a knock on the door and Derek hurries to open the door, stepping aside to let in a man. Stiles stays frozen in the middle of the room, stealing quick glances at the stranger. He’s seems to be near his forties, with greying hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

“That’s him.” Derek says awkwardly, waving in Stiles’ direction. Once again, Stiles fights hard not to roll his eyes.

The man watches Stiles with an intense gaze that makes his skin crawl. Slowly he stalks towards him and Stiles digs his fingers into his palms to keep himself from taking a step back. His heart hammers in his chest and he can’t fight the flinch when the man grabs his face and tilts his head, exposing his neck.

“Hm,” he hums approvingly. “Pretty little thing, look at you.” Then he sighs and turns to Derek. “I don’t suppose he’s a virgin, is he?”

Stiles blinks quickly, tears burning in his eyes. This is stupid, he’s not gonna cry. Noone’s even hurting him yet.

“Um,” Derek says, clearly lost for words, and shoots Stiles an inquiring look.

Stiles manages a miniscule shake of his head, his cheeks still in the iron grip of the man. He’s been a slave for two years, he’s young and apparently ‘pretty’, of course he’s not a virgin.

“Shame,” the man sighs and takes a step back. “I’ll take him nonetheless.” There’s a satisfied smile on his face and he looks ready to devour Stiles with his eyes.

“OK, yeah, there are more people coming, I’ll be in touch.” Derek is already steering the man towards the door.

“I have the cash here. I’ll throw in an extra grand.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Derek repeats as he all but pushes the man out of the door. Stiles takes a few shuddery breaths to calm himself but before he can think of anything to say, Derek disappears in his room, slamming the door behind him.

Stiles returns to the bathroom, washes his face in ice cold water and resumes his cleaning. A slave must always be useful and productive, this lesson has been ingrained into Stiles a long time ago. His mind is running at full speed. Derek seems like the kind of guy who wants to have nothing to do with slaves. He would probably ignore Stiles as long as he kept out of his way. If he could persuade him not to sell him, maybe he could…

The door to Derek’s room opens and before Stiles can so much as wipe his wet hands, he hears the main door slam shut again and Derek’s gone. Probably for the best. The cleaning is a slow going but the apartment is small and before long, there’s not much else to do. There is no vacuum or broom so the place is as clean as it can get at the moment.

He hesitates in front of Derek’s room. What if he had a laptop there? Would it be protected by a password, when he was used to living alone? And even if it wasn’t and Stiles managed to send an email to his dad, what good would it do? He doesn’t even know where he was or Derek’s last name. And then Derek would definitely smell that he was in his room and Stiles would probably be sent back to the slave center before he could blink.

In the end, he goes to the pantry and eats a handful of cereals from the box, hoping Derek wouldn’t notice. It is all gooey and tastes weird, probably long after expiration date too, and doesn’t do much to stave off his hunger.

He returns to his spot on the floor and lies down. His back is throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat and his stomach hurts. Tears are prickling in his eyes and he just wants to give in. He needs to be strong. He needs to be smart, keep your head down and wait for the right moment. That’s what he’s been telling himself the past two years. But somehow it seems harder and harder to hold onto any sliver of hope.

No one cares and no one is going to help him. After he got taken, he tried to tell his master that he shouldn’t be there, that he needs to get back to his father. All he got for his trouble was ten lashes with a whip for speaking out of turn and a week on half rations. He still remembers the feeling of utter despair and helplessness.

Even now, a hot rage makes his hands shake at the unfairness of this world. His dad has always worked so hard to make sure they had enough to pay the taxes, to buy their freedom. And then Stiles just let himself be kidnapped and sold, he couldn’t get free, there were three of them, and he kicked and tried to bite but it was all useless.

His breath hitches as he loses his battle and starts to cry. He muffles his sobs into his hands and hopes Derek won’t return any time soon.

 

He wakes up some time later, his stomach cramping painfully. He tries to ignore his hunger, as he has so many times before, tries to go back to sleep but the knowledge that there’s food just a few steps away won’t let him. He listens intently but can’t hear anything. He’ll just sneak in, grab another handful of cereals and in morning he’ll get on his knees and ask Derek what he can do to deserve food. He would totally blow the guy’s dick for a hamburger with curly fries, he’s not even ashamed to admit it.

He creeps quietly from his room, even though he knows it’s futile. There is no way he could sneak past werewolf’s hearing. Hopefully, Derek is a deep sleeper or is still gone.

He grabs the box, cringing at how loudly rustles.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Fuck, damn it.” Stiles flails at the sound of Derek’s voice, almost dropping the box. His heart starts to hammer immediately and his vision blurs. “Ma-, Derek, I’m…”

“It’s been here for years, I think there may be worms in it.” Derek says softly. He is sitting on the couch, in the dark living room, not even looking at Stiles. Stiles takes a couple of deep breaths, feeling the panic recede. Slowly, he approaches the couch. Derek finally looks at him, looking… almost lost, Stiles thinks.

“Derek, I… Please, you don’t have to sell me. I’ll be good. You won’t know I’m here.”

“Stiles,” Derek says in a strained voice.

“I can cook. And clean. I can…” he looks around, trying to think of other ways to be helpful without offering his body. “Please.”

“I can’t.” Derek says angrily, getting up from the couch. “I’ll find you someone else.” He disappears to his room, slamming the door behind him, like an angry teenager.

Stiles waits in the empty kitchen, defeated. When Derek does not return, he eats the cereal, half hoping there really are worms for the added protein, and returns to his spot on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously overwhelmed by all the kudos and comments I got. Thank you all for the support, I love hearing from you and reading your comments. Sorry this chapter is a little shorter.

 

He wakes up the next morning, feeling like he got hit by a truck. His whole body aches, his head throbs and there is dull but intense pain radiating from his back. He’s burning up, his skin feels too hot and yet he’s shaking with chills.

 _No._ This can’t be happening. This is the last thing he wants to deal with right now. He can’t afford a fucking infection when he needs to make Derek want to keep him. He tries to get up and just tough it out but doesn’t make into more than a sitting position before the dizziness overtakes him. He falls back down, panting as if he just run a marathon. This is not going to be fun.

Before he finds the strength to try again, he hears the main door open. Shoes are kicked into a corner and then the sound of a leather jacket being thrown on the table. The smell of coffee and delicious fresh donuts wafts under the door of Stiles’ room, making his stomach clench painfully.

The steps, slow and hesitant, stop in front of his door.

“Stiles?” Derek calls out softly.

Stiles tries to answer, tries to remember how to form words, but his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and feels impossibly heavy.  

“I’ll just leave them in kitchen.” Derek says after a while. Stiles doesn’t know what that means but is glad he’s left alone for now. Soon he hears the front door close again, as Derek leaves the apartment.

He sags on the carpet. He’ll just sleep this off and he’ll feel better when he wakes up. He has too. His sleep is fitful, full of feverish nightmares. Everything is muddled and wrong, one moment he’s at home, eating donuts with his dad, and suddenly there’s Derek, grabbing him by the t-shirt, pressing his face into a smelly, scratchy carpet, weighing him down, snaking his hand down his pants.

He wakes up with gasp, sweat pooling on his back. _No, no more_. He tries to stay awake, fights to keep his eyes open, but is soon pulled under by another nightmare, this time featuring his long-lost friend Scott, with his big puppy eyes, asking him why he left him.

It seems to go on forever. Stiles sleeps and wakes and sleeps, haunted by faces from his past, his friends and his masters, all jumbled together in a never ending nightmare.

Stiles has no idea if he has been sleeping for hours or just minutes when he hears Derek calling him again.

“Stiles!” This times it sounds more urgent and demanding. “You have one minute to come out or I’m going in!”

Stiles desperately tries to get up. He holds onto the wall, feeling like his head will split in two. Slowly he lifts himself on shaking legs. Mind over matter. He’s got this. He takes a single step and his leg buckle under him. He crumples to the floor with a sob.

He can’t do this. His body has finally betrayed him. There is no way he can fool Derek, even though he doesn’t seem particularly observant. It’s over. He stays on floor, feeling disconnected from everything, waiting for Derek to open the door.

A moment later, Derek enters the room. He looks at Stiles with an uncomprehending expression.

“Stiles? What are you doing?”

Stiles hides his face in his hands, curling into a ball, trying to brace himself for Derek dragging him up. There is a moment of silence, in which nothing happens, and then he hears Derek’s step retreating again without another word.

Stiles slowly uncurls. Derek will be back later, probably with a handler from the center, but at least he gets to not move for another while. He savors the quiet, trying not to think about what will happen next. Maybe the infection will kill him and then he won’t have to go to a brothel after all. He wipes at his eyes. He’s scared. Despite his shitty situation, he doesn’t want to die. He wants to go home, to his dad, and his video games and his comics, and….

His spiralling thoughts come to a stop when he hears two voices from the main room. Derek’s voice he recognizes immediately and the other one belongs to a girl. They’re getting closer and Stiles contemplates hiding under the bed but there’s no time.

The door opens again and two sets of eyes turn to Stiles’ huddled form on the floor.

“Oh my god, Derek, what did you do?” the girl asks.

“What? I didn’t do anything. I got him like this!”

“He’s sick.”

“I can see that, Cora! Fix him!” Derek voice sounds unnaturally high, with a hint of panic.

“I can’t fix him, I’m not a doctor. Why don’t you just call the center, I’m sure they’ll give you a refund when they sent you a sick slave.” The girl, Cora, shrugs.

“No,” Derek says fiercely, “I’m not sending him back.” Stiles feels something uncurl in his chest at Derek’s protective tone. He wants to grab Derek’s leg and cling onto to him for dear life. Right now, however, even breathing seems like too much effort.

“Then take him to the clinic, stupid.” Cora crouches down in front of Stiles and gently cups his cheek. “Are you with us, honey? We’re gonna take you to a doctor, you’ll be as good as new.”

Stiles barely manages a small nod before he is grabbed none too gently by Derek. He can’t help the squeal that escapes him as he is thrown over the werewolf’s shoulder, his head hanging dangerously near Derek’s bottom. His back protests vehemently and fireworks explode behind his closed eyelids from the pain.

“Let’s go.” Derek barks and steps out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek really means well, don't hate him too much:)


	4. Chapter 4

Derek carries him as if he weighs nothing. Every stride sends a jolt of pure agony through Stiles and all he can do is gasp for breath and try not to pass out. Luckily they don’t go far. Derek stops in front of a sleek black muscle car and puts Stiles down. He opens the passenger door with one hand, the other one keeping Stiles upright, and hesitates.

“You’re not gonna bleed on the upholstery, are you?”

Stiles tries to summon a glare. It probably looks pretty pathetic but Derek relents anyway.

“Fine,” he growls and helps Stiles get in the car. Stiles sits on the edge of the seat, keeping his back off the backrest, just in case.

“I’ll follow behind,” Cora calls and jogs away to her car.

The short ride is filled with Derek glaring angrily ahead, his jaw clenched, gripping the poor wheel until his knuckles are all white. For once, Stiles is glad for his empty stomach; at least he doesn’t have to worry about throwing up in Derek’s fancy car.

The slave clinic is a small shabby building, with plaster peeling off the walls and a sense of foreboding. Stiles does not want to go there and frantically tries to think of ways to persuade Derek that he’s really _fine_. But his mind is sluggish and when he blinks, time seems to jump and stutter. Suddenly Derek is pulling him out of the car and Stiles has no option but to follow.

Derek half drags, half carries him to the reception, where a tired-looking lady is typing away on the computer.

“I need to see a doctor, my slave’s sick, he’s…”

“Slave number?” the lady asks flatly, not looking away from the screen.

“I don’t know. But he has fever…”

“Fill this in and take a seat,” she says in an irritated tone and slaps a clipboard on the counter.

Derek glares daggers at her but takes the paper and steers Stiles to the plastic chairs.

“Gimme that,” Cora takes the clipboard and sits next to Stiles while Derek sits on Stiles’ other side with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Cora goes through the form with him, gently coaxing information from him, as he struggles to pay attention and cooperate. Still, she probably makes half of the stuff up. After she brings the form back to the reception, she stops by Derek.

“All set. I’m gonna go as I have much more interesting things to do than sit all day in a room full of sick people, but you two enjoy yourselves. Good luck, Stiles.” She pats his shoulder one last time and leaves.

Stiles tries to go back to his slumber but the chairs are impossibly uncomfortable. The backrest is low and there is nowhere to rest his head. In the end, he slides down a little and rests his head against Derek’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees Derek’s eyebrows do a complicated thing but he doesn’t push him away, so Stiles counts it as a win.

Derek is beautifully warm and Stiles starts to shiver again, not sure if it’s from the fever or nerves. Slowly, Derek moves his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and gingerly pulls him closer. Stiles melts into the warmth, not even discouraged by Derek sour expression. He doesn’t know how long they stay like this, he just breathes in sync with Derek and keeps his mind carefully blank.

“Hale, room 6. Hale, room 6” a distorted voice from a speaker in the corner puts an end to their little cuddle and Stiles can’t help but whine at the loss of contact. He grabs Derek’s wrist and lets himself be led to the examination room.

The nurse asks Derek about the symptoms, totally disregarding Stiles’ existence. She taps something into the computer and hands Derek a paper patient gown.

“Have him change into this and wait on the table.” She leaves the room without a single look in Stiles’ direction.

He changes behind the folding screen and perches himself on the edge of the padded examination table. They wait in silence, Derek siting on one of the chairs lining the wall, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles offers, his voice slurring a little.

“For being sick?” Derek asks raising his eyebrows.

 _For being a burden. For being weak._ Before he can think of a reply, the door opens and a young doctor enters the room. She looks at the computer for a while and then goes to Stiles.

“Lie on your stomach,” she instructs. He obeys, every movement setting his back on fire.

The doctor uncovers his back and stills. There is tense silence in the room. Stiles feels like they are exchanging looks but can’t tell for sure.

“I didn’t… I got him like this.” Derek says quietly, maybe more to himself than the doctor.

“Hm,” the doctor hums noncommittally. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to clean the wounds, apply antibiotic ointment and dress them. You’ll get antibiotics and painkillers for home and will change the dressing once a day. Sounds good?”

Stiles hears the doctor rummaging around, packages being torn and the clinging of instruments. The smell of disinfectant hits his nose and suddenly the doctor is stabbing his back with something and all the breath leaves Stiles’ body. Instinctively he tries to squirm away from the pain but Derek’s strong hand grabs him by the shoulder and pins him down to the table.

The next moment, all pain disappears. Stiles turns his head and watches in disbelief as black lines run up Derek’s arm. He knows werewolves can take away pain, he’s just never seen it, not to mention experienced it. He feels like he could float away right now, featherlight and tingly. For the first time in who knows how long, he breathes easily and relaxes into the table.

Stiles feels like he might have dozed off a couple of times when the doctor is finally done.

“Get dressed. Mr. Hale, a word if I may.”

They leave the room together and Stiles goes back behind the screen. He puts on Derek’s borrowed clothes again, still wet from his sweaty nightmares and with blood crusted on the back.

Derek returns shortly, a strained expression on his face, but doesn’t say a word. He leads Stiles back to the waiting room and deposits him in one of the chairs.

“Wait here,” he says curtly and briskly walks away. He’s back in two minutes with a sandwich in his hand.

“Eat this. I’ll run to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription. Wait here, okay? Don’t… Don’t go anywhere, I’ll pick you up.” He waits for Stiles to nod and then walks away in a hurry.

Stiles struggles to open the sandwich. His back is not hurting anymore, but he still feels like a chewed rag. He smiles mirthlessly to himself at Derek’s worry that he would run away. As if he could ever outrun a werewolf with a freaky sense of smell. Even without the chip in his neck, there is no place on Earth he could hide.

Slowly, he starts to eat the sandwich even though his stomach feels queasy and unsettled. He takes small bites, chews each of them for a minute and then forces them down his throat. Still, it feels impossibly dry without anything to drink and after each bite he has to take a minute, breathing through his nose, trying not to throw up.

Luckily, the sandwich is small and he manages to force it down before Derek returns. It sits heavily in his stomach and Stiles just wants to go back to sleep.

They don’t talk on the way back, Stiles concentrating on keeping his sandwich down and Derek keeping his eyes on the road, but the silence seems much less oppressive and more comfortable this time.

Back in the apartment, Derek doesn’t immediately disappear in his room, as Stiles expected, but goes with Stiles. In Stiles’ room, he takes all the clutter on the bed and piles it up on the floor. From inside of the bed’s storage he pulls out a comforter and a pillow and throws them on the bed.

“They’re a little dusty,” Derek says apologetically, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll wash them in the morning.”

Stiles tentatively sits on the bed, gauging Derek’s reaction. Derek looks as drained as Stiles feels. There’s tension in his shoulders and he works his jaw, as if trying to say something.

“Thank you,” Stiles says instead. “For, you know…” he gestures towards Derek’s arms. “For everything.”

Derek just nods and leaves the room without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby steps:)


	5. Chapter 5

There’s still light outside when he wakes up and he’s completely disoriented for a moment, not understanding whose bed he’s lying on. Then his stomach reminds him why he woke up in the first place and he dry-heaves, putting a hand in front of his mouth. He scrambles out of the bed in panic and runs towards the bathroom, all his thoughts reduced to _do not throw up on Derek’s floor_.

He makes it in time and collapses in front of the toilet. It takes him a long time to get all of the sandwich out and he’s sweating and shaking by the time it’s finally over. He gets up, his legs numb from the hard tiles, and washes his mouth in the sink, wishing he had a toothbrush.

Derek is standing in the kitchen when he leaves the bathroom, leaning against the counters, his arms crossed, a displeased expression on his face. _Oh right_. He feels a little bad for wasting Derek’s money but after the day he’s had, he can’t find it in him to beg for Derek’s forgiveness. What’s the point, he’s not gonna keep him anyway, this is just another failure in Stiles’ long list of failures.

“Sorry,” he just mutters and shuffles back to his room.

He’s lying on the bed, on his stomach, studying the stains on the carpet, when there’s a knock on the door. A moment later, Derek enters with a tray, balancing a bowl of soup, a glass of water and a pill. He sets it down on the floor as there is no table in the room.

“It’s a take-out. I don’t know how to cook.” Derek says, not looking at Stiles. “And I got you a Tylenol, for the fever. If you want.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says earnestly, reaching for the soup. Derek is already leaving the room again without a further word, but Stiles is kind of getting used to that by now.

The soup is delicious; a bit spicy, with curry and coconut milk, probably from an Indian restaurant. Stiles would love to slurp it directly from the bowl, if he wasn’t afraid of throwing up again. Instead, he paces himself, savouring each drop, only wishing he had some bread to go with it.

After he licks the bowl clean, he studies the pill. It looks like it may be a Tylenol but it’s out of the package. It may as well be any other drug that will knock him down, leave him defenceless for Derek to do whatever he wants to. _Derek wouldn’t do that_ , a voice in the back of his head argues immediately and Stiles scoffs to himself at his naivety. He’s known Derek for three days and spoke about ten sentences with him, what does he know.

Memories of his second master come flooding back. At first, he seemed like a really laid-back dude, talking to Stiles as if they were equals, joking around. Then, after a week, he had a bad day and caned Stiles bloody for looking him in the eyes. Afterwards, it only got worse. He obviously enjoyed mind games, giving Stiles impossible tasks and punishing him when he failed, making him apologize for not trying enough, all the while being charming and smiling. He constantly changed the rules and Stiles never knew what was coming his way. In the end, he became paranoid, always second-guessing himself, cowering from shadows in the corners. It was almost a relief to end up back in the slave center.

But he doesn’t have to take the pill, Derek said so. Maybe it’s a test though, to see if Stiles trusts him. Stiles grits his teeth in frustration. He’s doing it again, doubting everything and overthinking. In the end, he just takes it, drowning it down with the whole glass of water. At least he’ll know.

After ten minutes of anxious waiting, he starts to feel better. His fever is clearly going down and the throbbing in his head fades away. He sighs in relief and tries to go back to sleep. He tosses and turns but sleep eludes him. He gives up and starts to pace, or as much as he can in the cluttered room. There’s nothing to do, he’s been given no task, no chore, and a familiar restlessness starts to settle under his skin. A slave must always be useful. He’s not useful. He’s wasting Derek’s money and time and energy, without offering anything back.

His eyes land on the boxes. He could probably sort them, divide them into categories, clothes on one side, dishes on the other. Group similar things together to make room and clear the floor. The room would look much tidier. He wonders if Derek moved from a larger house and has nowhere to put his stuff. Considering the thick layer of dust though, it seems like it’s been here like this for quite some time.

He opens the first box, frowning in confusion. It is full of dolls of various sizes and styles, some plastic, others stuffed. Stiles pulls one doll out and inspects it. Its left side is distorted, charred and melted, and half of its hair is burned off. He puts it back quickly and closes the box with an uneasy feeling that he probably should not have seen this.

There’s a knock on the door and Stiles jumps guiltily away from the boxes. Derek enters, clutching a tube of cream and some bandages.

“It’s, um- Do you need help with, you know?” He waves the hand with the tube.

“Oh. Yeah, actually, that’s probably a good idea.” He shrugs off Derek’s sweatshirt, letting it pool on the floor. He’s already not looking forward to having to put that dirty piece of clothing on again. Derek kneels down by the bed, waiting for Stiles to lie down on his stomach, looking so focused it’s almost funny.

Carefully, Derek peels off the bandages. He squirts the cream on Stiles’ back and starts to gently rub it in. His hand feels large and rough, with so much potential to hurt and maim it sends a shiver down Stiles’ back. He feels vulnerable and fights the urge to curl in ball under the stinky blanket.

“Did they do this to you in the slave center?” Derek asks, never ceasing his movement.

“Nah, they don’t hurt slaves in the center. Bad for business.” At least not visibly. Nobody has to know if they taze you now and then to keep you in line. “This was a parting gift from my last master.”

“What did you do?”

 _Nothing_ , Stiles wants to say. Derek wouldn’t believe him, though. A werewolf wouldn’t hurt his human just for fun, we’re not monsters – Stiles can almost hear it. He pursues his lips and doesn’t answer.

Derek doesn’t push it, though, and soon they fall into comfortable silence again. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation. Derek must have drained some residual pain again because Stiles feels all floaty again. It seems to take a long time but Stiles wishes it would never end. Feeling the warmth of Derek’s hand, being so close, it’s almost like a lover’s caress if he pretends he’s anywhere else, maybe in his old bedroom, with peeling Star Wars posters on the wall, music playing in the background from his shitty notebook’s speakers.

Soon, familiar heat pools in his groin and he quickly opens his eyes. He bites his lip hard in order to bring himself back to reality from his little fantasy, praying that Derek didn’t catch a waft of his arousal. No such luck apparently, as Derek jerks away as if he got burned and hastily wipes his hand on his pants.

“All done,” he says hoarsely, putting on the new bandage sloppily. Stiles keeps his head buried in the bed, too embarrassed to even look at the man.

“G’Night, Stiles” Derek mutters at the door and then is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was awkward...
> 
> in other news, my 3yo has returned from her vacation with grandparents, I'm not sure I'll be able to update this often now, but I'll do my best.


	6. Chapter 6

In the morning, Stiles is lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather the courage to leave the room and face his master. On the plus side, he feels much better today. On the down side, he made a complete fool of himself yesterday. Sure, he is still a teenager and not really in control of his stupid hormones. It doesn’t help that Derek looks like some kind of Greek demigod, with his perfect muscles, chiselled chin and intense eyebrows… Stiles shakes his head in disbelieve. He’s doing it again.

Luckily, he’s saved by a knock on the door. He takes a few measured breaths to get himself under control and opens the door.

“Morning,” Derek says, running his eyes up and down Stiles’ body. Stiles fights not to fidget under the scrutiny. “Feeling any better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers honestly.

“Okay. Breakfast, then.” Derek turns around and goes to the kitchen. Stiles follows, inwardly panicking. What the hell does Derek expect Stiles to serve him for breakfast. Has he seen the insides of his fridge? But then he looks up and sees Derek pulling two glazed danishes from a bag onto plates. There are two paper cups of coffee already waiting at the small kitchen table. Derek sets the table and Stiles can’t help the little sound of frustration that escapes him.

“What?” Derek asks alarmed, scanning the table as if looking for what he did wrong.

“You do know that it’s supposed to be other way round, right? I’m supposed to serve _you_ breakfast and stuff,” Stiles explains but sits down at the table anyway.

“Hm,” Derek says noncommittally and takes a bite of his pastry.

Stiles sips at of his coffee. It’s black and bitter and Stiles carefully keeps his face neutral not to show his distaste. He hates coffee. He might be able to drink it with a shitload of sugar and cream but these are nowhere in sight. Whatever, he ate worse things to keep himself alive, he’s not gonna be ungrateful. He starts to feel overcaffeinated after only a couple of sips while Derek empties his cup as if it was water.

The danish’s good, at least, even though Stiles would probably sell his soul for some fried bacon right now. Still, it’s fresh and sweet and leaving crumbles everywhere.

The silence between them stretches on, awkward and tense. Stiles doesn’t know how to do this, he was never meant to be a companion before. In his previous placements, a good slave was never heard and never seen, yet everything had to be ready and perfect. With his first master, there were always dozens of slaves milling around, busy with their respective tasks. The rules were strict and punishments were harsh, but there was always order and Stiles never had to guess and assume anything. He never though he would miss it.

Stiles racks his brain for anything to say. He used to be good at talking, never able to shut up. That feels like a lifetime ago, though. He looks at Derek, scowling at his plate, and imagines asking him about the weather. The idea is so absurd it makes him snort into his coffee.

Derek raises his eyebrows but before he can say anything, there’s a knock on the door and Stiles’ whole body goes cold. Is that it? Has Derek found someone to take Stiles off his hands? Or worse yet, has he called the slave center after all? He tries to take a breath to calm himself. Maybe it’s just Cora, maybe she just wants to check on Stiles.

He looks at Derek with wide eyes, looking for any clues.

“It’s for you,” Derek says calmly, confirming Stiles’ fears, and he feels like he might cry.

Derek gets up to answer the door, while Stiles stays put, watching his half eaten danish, not really seeing anything over the tears. A few words are exchanged but Stiles can’t make them out over the pounding in his ears.

A loud thud as Derek throws a box on the floor next to Stiles makes him jump. Derek then returns to his chair opposite to Stiles and looks at him with a confused expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, scrunching his nose.

Stiles turns around, looking at the door but there’s no one there. The box is harmlessly sitting on the floor next to his feet.

“Um, nothing?” Stiles answers tentatively, quickly wiping at his eyes.

“Okay,” Derek says unsure, looking lost. “Well, open it up.”

Stiles slides from the chair to the door and goes for the box. He rips away the tape and looks inside. His heart starts to hammer again but this time for a completely different reason. He upturns the box, spilling the clothes on the floor.

“Derek, that’s…”

There are two t-shirts, a hoodie, two pairs of pants, all in neutral black and grey without any print. No socks or shoes. Maybe he won’t be allowed outside, Stiles thinks, already feeling suffocated only at the idea of having to spend all his time in this small apartment with nothing to do. What’s worse, there’s no underwear and, Stiles is heartbroken to see, no toothbrush. Still, a significant improvement from his borrowed too-big filthy sweatshirt.

“Thank you,” he says honestly, looking Derek in the eyes.

Derek lets out an irritated huff and rubs his face with his hands.

“It’s not enough, is it?

“No, it’s fine, really…”

Derek groans into hands. “I told you I can’t… I have no idea what I’m doing.” He slumps dejectedly in the chair.

“It’s okay – look, I don’t really need much, it’s not that hard. I take it you’re not a fan of malls, so let’s just order it online together.”

Derek is quiet for a long time and Stiles starts to worry he stepped out of line and pissed him off. He flinches when Derek finally stands up but he just goes into his room. A moment later he returns with a laptop under his arm.

“Let’s do this.” Derek plops on the couch and Stiles hurries to join him. He can’t remember the last time he felt this excited.

“I probably should have just googled it,” Derek says and opens a new search tab. “Slave equipment, accessories? What would you call it?”

“Uhm, no, don’t-” Stiles can imagine what kind of results that search would yield. Collars, leashes and punishment implements. Stiles didn’t want Derek to start getting ideas. “We can go to Amazon, I’ll tell you what to buy.”

They end up adding three t-shirts, a pair of jeans, underwear and socks to last him a week before having to do laundry. Stiles chooses the cheapest variants, regardless of his preferences for style or color. He has no idea what Derek’s budget is but he absolutely doesn’t not want to push his luck more than necessary.

“What else?” Derek asks after they’ve dealt with clothes, shoes and personal hygiene.

“Could we maybe get some cleaning supplies?”

“I usually order a cleaning service once a month or so.”

“Well, I’m your live-in cleaning service now,” Stiles tries for a joke but falls flat, judging from Derek’s expression.

“Fine. Anything else? I really don’t want to have to do this again tomorrow.”

Stiles thinks about spending his evenings in the messy room, staring at the bare walls, while Derek is holed up in his bedroom. He would love a book. But he doesn’t need it. But then again, he could choose a used one for ten dollars, that wouldn’t hurt Derek’s budget too much, would it? Or would Derek consider it insolent of Stiles to even ask for such a thing?

“Just ask, Stiles. I can practically hear you thinking.” Derek prompts, impatient.

“I was thinking maybe a book, but you don’t have to, it’s…”

“You like reading? Oh, wait second.” Derek sets the laptop down and runs back to his room. After a minute, he comes back, holding a Kindle.

“There’s quite of a lot of books on this. I got it as a gift but I’m not that much into reading. It’s yours. Let me know if you want me to download anything specific.”

Stiles takes the reader, staring at Derek in shock. There are voices in the back of his head, telling him that it’s a trap, that there will be a price to pay, but for once he ignores them. He just wants to enjoy this little moment of happiness and deal with the consequences later.

Derek seems oblivious to Stiles’ turmoil. He just punches his credit card info and then closes his laptop with a sight of relief and a small smile on his lips.

“Does this mean that you won’t… that I’m staying?” Stiles ventures, feeling weight lift from his chests only by asking. He needs to know, needs Derek to say it.

“Well, yeah. If that’s what you want.”

 _What he wants._ What he wants is to go home. What he wants is his dad, and to finish high school and maybe go to college. But it doesn’t really matter what he wants, now does it? He tries to school his expression not to show his anger but clearly it’s too late. Derek’s face falls and his mouth is set in a hard line. He doesn’t look at Stiles as he packs his laptop and disappears into his room, leaving Stiles alone in the living room once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, they're communicating! (at least a little)


	7. Chapter 7

The next couple of days go by in relative peace and quiet. Derek keeps mostly to his room or out of the apartment but brings him a take-out every day and a sweet breakfast with black coffee in the morning. They usually eat together, sitting on the couch and watching TV, which is much preferable to the awkward silence. Also, Stiles hasn’t watched TV in two years, and it makes him feel a little more like his old self again.

Derek still helps him with the antibiotic cream but he’s quick and clinical, never lingering more than necessary, which sort of infuriates Stiles but also makes him feel weirdly safe.

When the ordered things arrive, Stiles feels like a kid on a Christmas morning. He sorts his clothes, folds them into perfect squares and stacks them on the floor in his room. Next, he gives the cleaning another go, properly this time. He polishes every bit of glass, wipes every shelf and door frame. He waits for Derek to leave the apartment before vacuuming, so as not to disturb him.

When he’s done, he’s left panting and sweaty but satisfied. There’s not a single particle of dust in the living room, not a single smudge. He even took the couch apart and vacuumed all the crumbles and lost pennies.

The clothes are sticking to him and he contemplates another shower. He eyes the boiler in the bathroom. Does this mean the supply of hot water is limited? The idea of using up all the hot water knots his stomach in fear and he can’t bring himself to take another ice cold shower. In the end, he just washes up a little in the sink.

Derek returns a little later, looking slightly irritated and on edge. Stiles tries not to feel too discouraged. This is practically Derek’s default expression.

“Derek, can I ask you something?” Stiles starts tentatively.

Derek turns his scowl on him but nods anyway. The night before, as Stiles was lying in bed, he thought hard about ‘his’ room and all the stuff in it. If he could get Derek to buy a closet or just a shelving unit, he would be able to sort and organize it. Get the things off the floor so that he could clean the dirty carpet beneath. The room would look so much tidier. Even if Derek didn’t want to invest in new furniture, he could make it work by unpacking the half-empty boxes and rearranging the clutter. After what he saw last time he opened one of the boxes, though, he feels like he needs to ask for Derek’s permission before touching anything again.

“It’s about the stuff in my room…” he starts but before he can even finish the sentence, he is grabbed by Derek and slammed against the nearest wall.

“Did you go through my things?” he growls, his face only a few inches from Stiles’. His hands are fisted in Stiles’ t-shirt, almost ripping it apart.

“What, no! I just…”

“Well I am _not_ throwing them away just so you can have more space in your room!”

“That’s not-”

Derek’s eyes flash red for a second and Stiles goes instinctively limp. He averts his eyes and tilts his head, exposing his neck. He hopes his gesture of submission will be enough to soothe the angry werewolf.

After a beat, Derek lets him go and Stiles almost crumples to the floor, his legs feeling like jelly and shaking with fear and adrenaline. Derek turns around and runs from the apartment without a glance back.

Stiles stands frozen by the wall, trying to get his heart to slow down. What the hell just happened? He just pissed off his master and he didn’t even finish his question. His _Alpha_ master, on top of all things. And now he’s gone again, letting Stiles stew in his quilt and anxiety.

He finally gets his legs to move and is about to hide in his room, when his eyes land on a small black object lying on the kitchen counter. Derek’s phone. All other thoughts forgotten, he runs across the room and grabs it with shaking hands.

He turns towards the door to keep an eye on it and strains his ears for any signs of Derek returning. This is his chance. He desperately wants to hear his dad’s voice, to tell him he’s alive and still fighting. Stiles is not that stupid to think it will actually change anything, but he misses his dad so much it’s a physical ache. He can live the rest of his life as a slave knowing he got to tell his dad he loves him one last time.

He swipes at the display and his heart sinks again. _Enter a PIN code to unlock the phone._ Great. Clutching the phone, he knows he has to act fast. Maybe luck will be at his side for once. He enters 1234 and holds his breath.

The camera shutter goes off, making a little _click_ sound, and the screen turns black again. Stiles stares at it for a few seconds, uncomprehending, and then feels his chest tighten in panic. He is so fucked. A picture of his wide-eyed face trying to break into Derek’s phone is probably already on Derek’s email and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He puts the phone back on the counter and slowly makes his way into his room on numb legs. His breaths come in short gasps and his vision starts to blur around the edges. He presses his back into a corner, hides his head between knees and just lets the panic attack run its course.

 

By the time he hears Derek return to the apartment, the fear is mostly replaced by numbness. Derek steps, slow and hesitant, stop in front of the Stiles’ door.

“Stiles? Will you come out? I just want to talk.” He sounds weary, not angry. Probably hasn’t checked his email yet, then. Stiles tries to keep his breathing steady and wonders how well Derek can hear him over the wall and if he knows that he’s not asleep.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Derek says softly after a moment. “I shouldn’t have- You didn’t deserve that, it’s just that…”

There’s a long pause and Stiles starts to wonder if Derek has quietly left again.

“I can’t throw them away. They belonged to my family, they’re all I have left after… And Cora’s been bugging me for so long, to just throw the stuff away, I know it won’t bring them back, but… I just can’t.” Derek’s speaking so quietly Stiles holds his breath and leans closer to make out the words.

“Just… I’m sorry.”

Stiles hears shuffling and then door to Derek’s room closing. He lets out a breath. The silence is suffocating, like the calm before the storm. How long until Derek notices? Does he even know yet that he left his phone behind? Is he starting his computer now, about to check his emails? Sure enough, it doesn’t take more than a minute and Derek’s back in the living room.

“Stiles!” His voice has lost all of its softness from before. “Come here for a second.”

Stiles steels himself. No need to drag this out. He’d much rather have the discussion on the neutral ground in the living room than have Derek barge into his room, which – weirdly – he came to consider a sort of safe space.

He leaves the room, keeping his eyes trailed on the ground.

“Why did you try to get into my phone?”

“I, uh. I wanted to see if you have any cool games,” he tries, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Derek levels him with an unamused glare. “You know I can hear you lie, right? Try again.”

“I wanted…” Oh fuck it. There’s a lump in his throat and tears start to well up in his eyes, but he really just wants to get this over with, accept his punishment and move on. “I wanted to call my dad. I wasn’t trying to- I just wanted to let him know I’m alive and that…” _That I love him._ He can’t make himself say it out loud in front of Derek, though.

“Your dad?” Derek looks completely dumbfounded for a moment but his face lightens up immediately. He unlocks the phone and holds it out towards Stiles.

“Call him, then.”

Stiles stares at the phone. He knows it’s some sort of trick, or a test or maybe a game, but Stiles’ brain is just all muddled and he’s exhausted from his panic attack earlier. He can’t do this right now.

“Derek, please. I don’t want to play this game,” Stiles says pleadingly.

Anger flashes across Derek’s face. “I’m not playing any games, Stiles. Just call him. I want you to. I really don’t mind.”

When Stiles takes the phone, Derek walks to stand in the kitchen, probably to give him an illusion of privacy. Deciding to just forget all the warning bells in his head, Stiles quickly punches in the number. He’d know it in the middle of the night; even when drunk out of his mind, his father’s number was etched permanently to his brain. He presses call, heart beating in anticipation, and waits for the call to connect.

 _The number you have reached has been disconnected or is no longer in service_. The world spins and Stiles feels like he’s falling. He tries again, taking extra care to press the right numbers. _The number you have reached…_

Stiles throws the phone on the coffee table and hides his face in his hands. The couch dips as Derek joins him. A warm hand on his shoulder makes him look up and he meets Derek’s pitying eyes.

“Maybe he’s lost his phone,” he offers hesitantly.

 _Yeah, right._ Stiles knows for sure that if his dad really happened to lose his phone, he would block his sim card and get the operator to transfer his old number so that Stiles would always have a way to contact him.

“Maybe,” he says anyway because what else is there to say.

When Derek pulls him closer, he doesn’t fight it. He curls up under Derek arm, pressing himself against his warm broad chest. He tries not think about what that robotic message means, about the implications behind it. He just holds onto Derek like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning when Stiles finally makes it out of his room, Derek is already sitting at the table drinking coffee, a determined expression on his face. Stiles feels a pang of embarrassment when he thinks of the previous evening and how he clung onto Derek. Eventually Stiles must have fallen asleep curled up against Derek, lulled by his warmth and steady breathing. This morning he woke up in his bed with no idea how he got there so he just assumes Derek carried him.

It felt nice, though. It’s been so long since he last experienced the comfort of another human being, just enjoying the touch and closeness without being afraid. He sort of wants to do it again and when he sits in his chair at the kitchen table, he feels too cold and way too far from Derek.

He hugs his knees, glaring at his cup of black coffee with a renewed hatred.

“So, I was thinking,” Derek starts, making Stiles look up. “There are still other ways we can contact your dad. Where does he work, for example?”

Stiles can’t help but smile. Hearing Derek refer to them as ‘we’ and using present tense for his dad just makes him feel not so utterly alone in the world.

“He’s the Beacon Hills Sheriff.”

“Beacon Hills?” Derek is already tapping away on his phone. “That’s four hours by car, not bad. Let’s give them a call.”

When Derek hangs up, Stiles already knows it’s not good news. “He’s no longer the sheriff and they’re not allowed to disclose any more information,” he repeats sourly what Stiles has already heard through the phone.

Stiles exhales through his nose, trying not to feel too dejected. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. But that doesn’t have to mean anything. There are a million reasonable explanations, he just wishes his mind wasn’t stuck on the worse one.

Derek pulls out two bagels from a paper bag with the same bakery logo as always and serves them on a plate.

“Eat up, we’re going on a road trip.”

 

They set out immediately after breakfast. Derek leads him to his car, but this time, Stiles is lucid enough to appreciate it. It’s not exactly practical and the fuel consumption is probably crazy but it suits Derek with his leather jacket and brooding personality.

“Take your feet off the dashboard,” Derek barks at him when he sees Stiles has made himself comfortable for the long drive.

“Sorry,” Stiles immediately obeys and wipes the dashboard with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“It’s not safe,” Derek mutters. “And for god’s sake, put on your seatbelt,” he sighs exasperatedly.

When they finally merge onto the highway it occurs to Stiles that it’s going to be a very long four hours if they’re going to spend it in silence.

“Wanna play a game? I spy with my little eye….”

“No!” Derek snaps, throwing Stiles a horrified look.

“Fine,” Stiles concedes. There are still things he wants to tell Derek and now may be the perfect chance when they’re locked in a car with nowhere to hide. Sure, it is still in the realm of possibility that Derek would kick him out of the car and leave him in the middle of nowhere, but Stiles decides it’s an acceptable risk.

“About yesterday,” he starts.

“I’m really sorry I lashed out,” Derek interrupts him immediately.

“Yeah I know. No harm done. But I need you to know that that’s not what I wanted to ask. I would never ask you to throw your things away. I just thought I could organize it a little, you know. Tidy up.”

“Okay. We can do that. Later.” Derek says softly. It’s probably as good as Stiles is going to get so he leaves it be.

“So you’re an Alpha?” Stiles asks after a moment of silence.

“Hm.”

“Where’s your pack?”

“I don’t really have one. Well, technically, Peter and Cora are my pack but we’re not… we don’t see each other that often.”

That’s kind of sad. Stiles hasn’t met that many werewolves but he knows that packs are extremely important to them. From what he’s seen in his previous placements, they usually lived together, the whole pack under one roof, and were excessively tactile. Living alone like a hermit was probably not very healthy for an Alpha.

“So it was only you and your dad?” Derek asks after a beat and Stiles feels a little giddy at Derek finally asking him a question instead of just barking orders.

“Yeah, my mom died when I was young. I was lucky to have my dad. It was not easy on him but he always tried to protect me, to make sure I didn’t…” _I didn’t end up a slave,_ he doesn’t say. Even though it wasn’t always like that. After his mother’s death, his dad tried to drown his sorrow in a bottle of whiskey. It wasn’t pretty. But then, with werewolves gaining more and more power, he manned up and got back to his feet, probably realizing how much Stiles needed him.

“What happened? How did you end up here?”

“I fucked up,” Stiles admits honestly. He was reckless and stupid and he didn’t listen. It was a movie night and Stiles had been looking for it the whole month. Tickets were expensive but once month his dad took to the movies. As they were waiting to be let in, Stiles told his dad that he’s going to the bathroom. Instead, he sneaked out of the building into one of the dark deserted alleys to have a smoke. That’s where they took him. After a short and pitiful fight, Stiles was thrown into the back of a van and that was it. Goodbye his old life. Who cares that it wasn’t legal. Werewolves certainly don’t and they make the rules.

He wonders how long his dad had waited before he went looking for him. He imagines his dad frantically searching around the cinema, calling his name, asking people if they’d seen him, and his heart feels like it’s going to shatter.

A glum silence settles between them. Stiles stares out of the window, not really feeling like talking any more.

“Ok, fine,” Derek says, looking at Stiles from the corner of his eye. “We’re playing 20 questions but I should warn you, my knowledge of celebrities is practically non-existent.”

 

Three hours into the drive, Stiles is once again reminded why he hates coffee as his bladder is getting uncomfortably full. He squirms in his seat, trying to find any position that would alleviate the pressure. Derek, on the other hand, looks as fresh as ever, his eyes focused intently on the road.

“Don’t you need a break? You know, to stretch your legs?” Stiles asks, hoping Derek will take the hint.

“No, I’m fine. Besides, we’re almost there.” So much for hinting.

 _Almost there_ turns out to be another forty-five minutes of trying to think about anything else than how bad he needs to take a piss. Luckily, as they draw closer, his thoughts turn to his home and his dad. He imagines his dad’s face as he opens the door to find Stiles standing there. He would probably crush him in a hug and then lock them in the house, refusing to give him back to Derek.

His heart picks up. Why hasn’t he thought of this before? What if his dad fights Derek, what if he somehow managed to get his hands on the highly illegal and almost impossible to find wolfsbane? And worse yet, what if Derek decides to fight back?

They’re already entering Beacon Hills and Stiles’ panic escalates. _Shit,_ he had four hours to persuade Derek not to hurt his dad and he only thought of it now?

“Um, Derek, what- What will you do, if my dad’s really home?

“What do you mean?” Derek asks, looking genuinely confused.

“Like, my dad’s not going to give me up without a fight.”

“I thought you wanted to go back to your dad,” Derek shrugs. “I’m okay with that.”

“What? My dad could never afford-”

“I don’t care about the money,” Derek growls immediately. “It’s not my money, anyway.”

Stiles tries to wrap his head around it. Could that actually happen? Could he get his freedom back, return to his dad and pretend this nightmare never happened? _Please_ , he begs, not even sure who he’s asking. _Please_.

When they turn into his home street, Stiles plasters his face against the window, feeling he might vibrate out of his skin with anticipation.

The sign on the front lawn is the first thing Stiles notices and he wants to scream. He knows what it’s going to say before the pull into the driveway. _Foreclosure. House for sale_. The shutters are closed and overgrown grass seeps through the cracks in the pavement. Dead flowers on the windows sill are hanging lifelessly from the pots.

Familiar numbness starts to seep into Stiles’ bones. They sit in the car for a long time, staring at the sign as if waiting for something to happen.

“I have a couple of more ideas,” Derek says finally. “We’re not giving up.”

Stiles feels something in his chest swell. Of course he’s not giving up. Dad wouldn’t either. He’s gonna keep looking and he’s gonna find him. One way or another.

“Wanna grab a burger?” Derek asks and starts the car.

“With curly fries?”

“Sure, whatever that is.”

“I know just the place.”

 

Stiles practically runs into the bathroom when they enter the joint, not even waiting to be seated. When he comes back, Derek shoots him an angry glare from the behind the menu. Stiles hesitates, going back in his mind to what he did to piss him off. He should’ve probably waited to be seated and then asked his permission.

“I’m not a mind reader, you know.” Derek snarls once Stiles sits down.

“Okay?” Stiles agrees uncertainly, getting more nervous by the second. Was it something else? What did he do? “I’m sorry,” he says just to be on the safe side.

“No, that’s-” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a few calming breaths. “I need you to talk to me. Just tell me when you need something, ask me. I won’t get mad. But please don’t just expect me to… know things, I’m really not good at that. Please, Stiles.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

Derek’s shoulder sag. He studies him intently for a couple of seconds but then just nods.

“Thank you. Let’s order those curly fries, then.”

 

When they finally make it home, it’s already dark and Stiles is exhausted and jittery at the same time. Being trapped in a small car for eight hours was not fun. In the end, he couldn’t stop his knees from bouncing up and down from the restlessness and he had to open the window not to feel like he was suffocating.

He was afraid Derek would get annoyed and just bark at him to stay still. Instead, probably sensing his unease, he got him to explain the plot of Star Wars in excruciating details and managed to nod and hum in the right places.

Derek plops on the couch and throws his feet on the table. Stiles hesitates, already about to disappear in his room, but changes his mind. He goes to sit next to Derek, scooching closer, all the while watching for Derek’s reaction.

When their thighs are touching, Stiles slowly reaches for Derek’s hand, lifting up and curling under his arm, head resting on Derek’s chest.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly and feels Derek nod.

At first, Derek is tense and rigid, probably waiting for Stiles to make another move, but when nothing happens, he slowly melts into the touch. He runs his fingers gently through Stiles’ hair and Stiles lets out a little hum of contentment. A hot wave of pleasure runs down his spine but he ignores it. This little cuddle without the fear of where it may lead is the only thing he needs right now and he never wants to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weekends are always super busy but I was able to finish a new chapter anyway, yay!
> 
> By the way, Scott will not appear in this fic, I never really liked him, so don't expect him to save the day:)
> 
> And finally, I would like to thank everybody for reading and commenting, it makes my day! Reading and replying to your comments is just as much fun as writing this:)


	9. Chapter 9

The next day Stiles is already up and about when Derek emerges from his room. Stiles would have loved to surprise him some eggs and bacon but the fridge is still woefully empty.

“Morning,” he smiles and sits down on the couch.

Stiles hurries to join him, sprawling on the empty side and throwing his legs over Derek’s lap. Derek doesn’t comment but lays his hands carefully on Stiles’ calves.

“You’ll have to let me up if want some breakfast,” he says but makes no move to stand up.

“About that,” Stiles starts and Derek turns to him with an open expression. Stiles feels a stab of guilt, remembering their conversation yesterday and how distraught Derek seemed. He never thought about what it was like for Derek. He just took it for granted that masters didn’t give a shit about Stiles’ needs or preferences and he just had to make do with what he was given.

Derek seems to genuinely care, though. Sure, he needs to work on his communication skills but Stiles isn’t helping much either. By withholding information, he puts Derek into the position of the bad guy without giving him a chance.

“I hate coffee,” he blurts and immediately feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment. _But it’s no big deal, I’ll drink it anyway, thank you_ , he wants to add but bites his lip hard to stop himself.

“Okay.” Derek says in a carefully neutral tone. “What would you like me to get you?”

Stiles seriously feels like punching air because this is probably the first time since his kidnapping that somebody asked him what he wants to drink or eat.

“Can we go grocery shopping? I’d love to cook for you.”

“You don’t need to…”

“Yeah, I know I don’t _need_ to but I want to. I’m pretty good, too. Wait until you try my bacon pancakes. Oh, and my Bolognese sauce, that’s always a winner. Come on,” he takes hold of Derek’s arm and pulls Derek of the couch. Not that he would be able to move Derek an inch if he didn’t want to be moved, that man weighs probably twice as much as Stiles and is solid muscles.

“Okay, let’s go.” Derek grabs his jacket and wallet.

It’s a short ride to the shop. It’s a busy day and the parking lot is mostly full. From out of the window he sees people, presumably slaves, struggling to carry ten bags in each hand, while their masters walk briskly ahead, talking on their phones. His enthusiasm quickly seeps away. Unsurprisingly, Derek doesn’t seem bothered or to even notice. You never notice these things until you have to live it.

When they walk into the store, Stiles falls one step behind, keeping his pace measured to maintain the distance, his eyes glued to the floor.

“What-” Derek turns around, confused. Immediately, his expression turns sour. “Please don’t do that.”

“But-”

“I don’t care. Come here.” He interlocks his fingers with Stiles and leads to him to the carts.

“Go ahead. Buy whatever you want. I don’t know where anything is. I only ever buy ramen noodles.”

“How are you even alive?”

“I like take-outs,” Derek grumbles.

“Yeah, I noticed. You’ll never want another take-out once you taste my cooking, trust me,” Stiles jokes. He’s still wary but most of the tension has left his body. He goes through the store systematically, already making a list of meals for the week.

When they make it to the cash register, the cart is practically overflowing and Stiles starts to worry that he went a little overboard.

“Is that too much?” he asks uncertainly. “I don’t want to bankrupt you.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Let’s just hope it’ll fit into the trunk.”

By the time they get back and put away all the groceries, the sun is already high in the sky. Stiles starts to prepare the batter for pancakes.

“Let’s call it a brunch, sounds cooler, anyway,” Stiles jokes as he chops the bacon, his mouth already watering.

Derek is sitting at the small kitchen table, pose slouched and relaxed, watching Stiles with an amused expression.

Stiles throws him a little smile from the stove. This is nice. He always loved cooking for his dad. For him, it wasn’t just food, something you had to get into your stomach to survive. It was art and a creative outlet, as well as a way of caring for his dad, making sure he had a healthy and balanced diet, as much as their limited funds allowed. Just like Derek, his dad would often sit at the table, watching Stiles, reading the newspaper and sharing the interesting bits with Stiles.

His love for cooking was soiled after he got kidnapped. In his first placement, he had to work under extreme time pressure, stressed out of his mind whether he’s going to be able to serve the food on time. His second master never told him what to prepare and his hands always shook when he served the dish in front of him, anxious whether he made the right choice. Oftentimes, the plate ended shattered on the floor and Stiles was sent to ‘bring him something better’.

“You make it look so easy,” Derek interrupts him from his solemn thoughts. “I would probably manage to burn water.”

“I once put a pot of water on the stove to get it to boil and forgot about it. I boiled the pot completely dry. Took me three days to scrub it clean. You learn from your mistakes.” And also the caning he got for ruining the pot was a good reminder to pay better attention next time.

They lapse into comfortable silence. Stiles flipping the pancakes and Derek watching. When he lays down the plate of deliciously looking bacon pancakes, he feels a sense of accomplishment.

He watches Derek’s face carefully as he takes the first bite, gauging his reaction. Derek’s eyes grow a little wild and he stuffs his mouth full.

“Hmm,” he moans around the food. It does something to Stiles that he’s not ready to admit but feels his face heat nonetheless.

“Not bad,” Derek says and Stiles feels himself beam.

 

After breakfast Derek brings his laptop and together they try sending his dad an email, even though Stiles doesn’t really expect him to answer at this point. Still, Derek says he has some contacts and he’ll see what he can do.

They spend the rest of the day just lounging around. They don’t disappear to their respective rooms but seem to gravitate towards each other, craving the closeness. Derek is sitting on the couch, doing whatever on the laptop, while Stiles is lying next to him, propping his feet against Derek’s side. It’s not much of a cuddle but the single point of contact is keeping Stiles grounded and from time to time, Derek absentmindedly pats his legs.

When it’s time to cook dinner, Derek trails Stiles into the kitchen and leans against the kitchen counters, listening to Stiles comment on what he’s doing. He’s always loved pretending he’s on a cooking show and he’s explaining to the audience the individual steps of his special recipe.

After dinner, Stiles is putting the dirty dishes in the sink, when there’s a knock on the door. He shoots Derek an inquiring look but fights to remain calm. They’re over this.

“It’s Peter,” Derek mutters and walks towards the door. Stiles contemplates hiding in his room but curiosity wins over and he slowly stalks into the living room to get a better view.

“What are you doing here?” Derek growls as way of greeting.

“Lovely to see you too, nephew.”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat. He immediately recognizes the voice of the man who bought him. He kind of wishes he opted for hiding in his room now.

Peter walks past Derek into the living room, his eyes immediately landing on Stiles.

“Here he is. Good, I was worried you might have broken your toy already,” he says with a smirk.

Stiles stays frozen in the middle of the room like a deer in headlights. He can’t tear his eyes away and sees Peter’s expression turn hard and cold.

“What are you looking at?” he snarls. “Kneel!”

Stiles goes down immediately, hitting the floor with a loud thud, as his muscle memory kicks in like an instinct.

“Stiles, no. Get up!” Derek grabs him by the shirt and lifts him up so fast he hears the poor material tear.

“You don’t give the orders here,” Derek turns to Peter. “Don’t even look at him,” he growls and Stiles catches a glint of red in Derek’s eyes.

“Possessive, I like it.” Peter smiles, unfazed. “Actually, I brought you something. I found what you were looking for.”

He holds out a piece of paper towards Derek. When Derek reaches for it, he pulls it back.

“You’ll owe me a favor.”

“Fine,” Derek agrees reluctantly and snaps the paper from Peter’s hand.

With a satisfied smile, Peter heads towards the door. He stops by Stiles, leaning so close Stiles can feel his breath on his neck, making him shudder.

“I’ll collect it later,” he whispers suggestively into Stiles’ ear and leaves with a final wink at Stiles.

“What- What was that about?” Stiles asks once Peter’s out of the door. His head is spinning like crazy and a heavy weight settles in his stomach.

“Derek?”

Derek is staring at the paper, his eyes wide, and Stiles’ chest tightens with dread. He hurries to Derek and looks at the paper.

His breath hitches at the sight. It’s a mugshot of a man looking unhappily into the camera. While the lines are etched a little deeper into his skin and there are dark circles under his eyes, Stiles recognizes his dad immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of domestic Stiles and Derek, I hope it wasn't too boring, I enjoyed writing it, but I don't know...
> 
> And finally, a break on the Stilinski case:-D
> 
> The next chapter may be a little late, I'm visiting my parents for a week, that's always hectic, but we'll see, I'll do my best. Enjoy!


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles is studying the face on the picture, trying to imprint every little detail, every line and imperfection into memory. It’s been so long since he last saw his dad. During his two years of servitude, he fought to hold onto the memory of his dad’s face but still it faded away a little every day, becoming more and more blurry around the edges.

Now he’s looking at him from the picture, his expression miserable and hurting, yet very much alive.

“What did you do?” Stiles whispers, as if expecting the photograph to answer.

What prison is he in? What if he’s somewhere across the country? Will he be able to visit him?  He might not even be in a prison anymore. But where would he go? They lost the house. Or, it suddenly occurs to him, sweat breaking out on his back, what if got a life sentence? What if he’ll die alone in some prison while Stiles spends the rest of his life as a slave? His head spins and his vision starts to swim. He’s trying to breathe but feels like someone is choking him.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, sounding muffled and far away. “Take a breath, it’s okay.”

Stiles just shakes his head but can’t force a single sound from his close-up throat. Then large hands are pulling him closer and fights with his last ounce of strength.

“Okay, sorry. I’m not gonna touch you, sorry. Just focus on your breathing. In through your nose. One, two, three, four, five. Out through your nose.”

It takes a long time, with Derek gently coaching him, but finally the panic recedes and his mind starts to clear. He looks with watery eyes at Derek, crouching down at a respectable distance, watching him with a worried expression.

“Are you with me?”

Slowly, Stiles unfolds his arms from around his knees and nods. Derek helps him up on the couch, laying him down with his head in Derek’s lap. They are silent for a long time. Derek runs one hand through Stiles’ hair, tapping on his phone with the other.

“Thank you,” Stiles croaks out finally.

“It’s okay. Panic attacks suck.”

That catches Stiles’ attention and he turns around to look at Derek. “How did you know?”

“I used to have them too, after…”

“After your family died?” Stiles asks even though he knows he’s way over the line. Derek just nods slightly, his face a hard mask.

“What happened?”

Derek opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. Stiles waits patiently but it soon becomes clear that Derek’s not going to answer him. He feels him go rigid beneath him, radiating tension. _Way to go, Stiles._

He sits up, already missing Derek’s heat, but he can’t hide in his little bubble and ignore the world forever, as much as he would love to.

“What are we going to do?” he asks, not sure if he’s really expecting an answer.

Derek perks up, the tension leaving his body. “I already found your dad, he’s in the Beacon County Federal Correctional Institution.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, there’s a website for that, you enter the inmate number – look.” Derek tilts the phone he’s holding towards Stiles.

“You’re awesome.” Stiles exclaims and sees Derek beam a little, even though he tries to cover it immediately.

“Can we go visit him?” He would probably try to drag Derek to the car right now, if it wasn’t late evening already.

“It’s not that simple,” Derek says carefully and Stiles deflates immediately. Of course it’s not. The trip would take a whole day, more than eight hours of driving, that’s a lot of fuel. And time. And Derek definitely has better things to do.

“You have to be approved first to be added to the list of visitors. I filled in the application and my approval but it still may take weeks.”

 _Oh_. Okay, he can wait. He’s waited so much longer, he can do a couple of more weeks. “Thank you.”

 

As it turns out, it is much easier said than done. Stiles spends the whole night tossing and turning, thinking about his dad, playing out in his head what he’s going to say to him, imagining various scenarios, ranging from happy to devastating ones that make him tear up.

It gets easier as time goes by. Stiles tries to keep his mind occupied by cleaning and cooking. He thinks of the most time consuming meals and deserts and then prepares them with extra care, focusing hard on every step to keep his mind from wandering.

He does the laundry and washes the windows. Soon he is itching to get his hands on the boxes in his room but Derek hasn’t mentioned it since their road trip so he just lets it be.

But the apartment is small and there’s just two of them to cook for. Soon enough he runs out of things to do and just sits unhappily on the couch like a bundle of misery.

“Wanna go for a run?” Derek asks and when he sees him.

“I don’t think I would be able to keep up,” Stiles smiles sadly.

“It’s okay. I will just take a walk and you can trot along,” Derek quips, already putting on his running shoes.

They drive out of the city and park near by the woods. A narrow dirt road winds up through the trees, disappearing behind the horizon.

“It’s up the hill?” Stiles grumbles, already feeling out of breath just looking at the slope.

“Yeah, but the view’s worth it. Come on.”

Stiles kind of hates Derek after the first ten minutes. His lungs burn and the stabbing pain in his right side is killing him. He should have paced himself but he didn’t want to look entirely pathetic. Luckily, Derek doesn’t push him and they end up walking side by side.

Even when walking, his thighs are soon burning and sweat is trickling down his back. But once he stops caring about how red his face must be and whether the sweat spots are showing, it actually feels exhilarating. It’s easy to push back all the worries and stress when surrounded by the sweet smell of pine trees and the buzzing of insects. He realizes he’s grinning dopily and doesn’t really care.

Finally the hill lets up and opens to a clearing overviewing the whole valley. Wordlessly, they sit on the soft grass. After a few minutes of huffing, he finally catches his breath and tries to enjoy the view. His attention, however, keeps turning to Derek, his solid form pressing against his side, and he feels an inexplicable urge to just kiss him.

He silently shakes his head at himself. What is he thinking, Derek is his master. No that he ever really acted like one. And would it really be such a bad thing? Just one little kiss? Maybe Derek would just push him away, horrified, and then at least Stiles would know where he stands.

He’s completely frozen in indecision. Then Derek’s phone beeps and the spell is broken. He glares angrily at the breath-taking view, no really seeing anything.

“Oh,” Derek’s excited tone immediately snaps Stiles back from his sulking. “They approved you. We are to come on Sunday from 2 to 4 PM.”

“Yes!” Stiles flings himself at Derek, crushing him in a sweaty hug. He practically skips the whole way back to the car.

 

The next morning, Derek leaves the apartment after breakfast to run some errands with a promise to be back as soon as possible. Once the dishes are all cleaned and put away, Stiles lounges on the coach, enjoying the freedom to choose the channel without worrying whether or not it is too boring for Derek. He’s in the middle of a national geographic documentary, silently cheering for a baby antelope running from a cheetah, when there’s a knock on the door.

He immediately mutes the TV and holds his breath, trying to stay as still as possible.

“I know you’re in there,” Peter’s smooth voice comes from behind door. “I can hear your heart pounding.”

Stiles slowly gets up from the couch and takes a few cautious steps towards the door.

“Derek’s not home,” he pipes up, hating how high and nervous his voice sounds. Stiles can’t stop his heart from tripling in speed, even though he knows Peter can hear it and probably enjoys his trepidation.

“Oh, I know, he’s sent me. You know he owes me a favor. I would very much like to see what that beautiful mouth of yours can do.”

 _He’s lying. Derek wouldn’t do that_. At the same time, there’s immediately the familiar voice in the back of his head, telling him he should’ve known. Peter is Derek’s pack and Stiles is just some unwanted slave he got stuck with.

No. Derek wouldn’t do that. He must hold onto this thought otherwise he’ll just shatter, he feels it.

“I’m not opening the door,” Stiles say quietly, taking a few steps back.

“That’s too bad,” Petr drawls out, sounding amused. “I guess I’ll just have to use the spare key Derek gave me.”

Without really thinking his plan through, Stiles bolts to the bathroom, the only room that can be locked. Once inside he looks for anything that could be used to block the door but there’s nothing. He should’ve brought a chair from the kitchen but it’s too late. He hears the main door open and then Peter’s steps stop unmistakenly in front of the bathroom.

“You think some door will stop me?” Peter sneers. The sound of claws gently scraping the wood makes Stiles’ hair stand on end. “Come on, now. I don’t think Derek will be too pleased to see that you made me rip his bathroom door apart.

Stiles is standing in the middle of the small room, suddenly hit by the memory of his first day and how afraid he was of Derek. The idea of Derek forcing himself on Stiles now feels absurd and just proves how much he lowered his guard.  Peter, on the other hand, is a very real possibility and Stiles is desperately trying to figure out a way to stop this.

“You have-” Peter falls abruptly silent and Stiles strains his ears but doesn’t hear anything.

“Fuck,” he hears Peter mutter and he’s quickly retreating, followed by the sound of door softly closing.

It doesn’t take more than a minute before the door opens again. At the familiar sound of shoes being kicked into the corner a wave of relief washes over Stiles, making him weak at the knees.

“Stiles?” Derek calls out, sounding slightly worried.

Stiles slowly comes out of the bathroom, not daring to look the werewolf in the eyes. Will he be mad that he defied Peter’s wishes? Did he just embarrass him as a master? _But Derek wouldn’t do that_ , he repeats to himself, fighting to believe it.

“Was Peter here?” he asks, sniffing the air.

“Yes.” Clearly there’s no point in denying it.

“Ok,” Derek says, a frown on his face.  “Did he leave a message for me or something?”

“I’ll give him a call,” he says when Stiles wordlessly shakes his head.

Stiles just nods and is about to disappear to his room when Derek calls after him.

“Stiles, are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says dully. Derek looks lost but doesn’t stop him.

He sits on the bed, suddenly exhausted. He’s feeling adrift. _Derek wouldn’t do that_. Just a few moments ago he was so sure. Now the words sound hollow and meaningless. He is a slave and Derek is his master, why does he keep forgetting that? And Peter did have a key. And Derek did promise him a favor, he heard it with his own ears.

His head starts to throb painfully in rhythm with his heart. He can’t tell what’s real anymore and what’s just a figment of his paranoid imagination. When everything else seems to be slipping out of his grasp, he holds on to the only thought that keeps him from falling apart – he’s going to see his dad on Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uf, I'm glad I was able to finish this. Both my kids got sick, I spent last two nights running between them, clearing my 5-month-old's nose so that she can breathe, and soothing my 3-year-old. Fun!
> 
> I'm sorry if you're a Peter's fan, I like him too, but here's a sleazy bastard who likes to play mind games with Stiles:)
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, I'll try to get the next chapter ready as soon as I can but no promises:)


	11. Chapter 11

On Sunday, Stiles gets up at 6 AM after hours of useless tossing. He prepares sandwiches for the trip, makes pancakes for breakfast and puts them into oven to keep them warm. Then he just sits on the couch, watching the door of Derek’s room, waiting for him to get up.

At 7:05, just when Stiles is contemplating waking him up, Derek emerges from the room, with disheveled hair and a darker than usual stubble, looking unfairly sexy. Stiles gets his mind out of the gutter and runs to the oven to serve the breakfast.

“Come on, we’re five minutes behind the plan.”

“We have plenty of time, Stiles.”

“What if there’s traffic jam on the highway. What if the car breaks down. What if…” Stiles tries to think of more emergency scenarios but comes up empty, even though he’s sure he thought of like twenty of them when he was trying to fall asleep.

“Ok,” Derek says patiently. “We’ll leave right after breakfast.”

Stiles forces down one pancake even though his stomach is tied up in knots and then hovers nervously by the door, waiting for Derek to get ready.

This time he brings the Kindle to save himself from having to force a conversation. He stares at the same page for most of the trip, not seeing a single word. In his head, he goes through the list of rules the prison sent them. One hug at the beginning, one at the end. No touching and no loud and disruptive behavior. One step out of the line and their visit could be cut short. Stiles is not going to let that happen.

Derek stops for two bathroom breaks. When Stiles insists grumpily he doesn’t need one, he just gives him an unimpressed look and doesn’t comment.

Somehow the trip seems to take forever and is over too soon. The prison facility comes into view and Stiles’ stomach clenches painfully. It is an ugly, grim building surrounded by a mesh fence topped with razor wire. The guard tower looms in the corner of the yard and Stiles gets the uneasy feeling of being watched.

Derek parks the car in the adjoined parking lot and kills the engine. None of them makes a move to leave the car, they just stare ahead while the solemn silence stretches on.

“Thank you,” Stiles says finally. “For helping me find him, for driving me here… I know you didn’t have to do that. I, uh… appreciate it.”

Derek takes Stiles’ hand from where he’s been wrenching it nervously in the lap. He runs his thumb soothingly across his knuckles.

“I’m glad I could help. Come on, now. Don’t keep him waiting.”

When they get out of the car, Stiles assumes the proper position for a slave – a step behind, head down, hands clasped behind his back. This time, Derek doesn’t stop him, even though Stiles catches a glimpse of his pinched expression.

Once the massive steel gate closes behind them, Stiles immediately starts to feel suffocated and his breathing becomes shallow despite how much he concentrates on keeping calm and composed. He wonders what is worse. Being trapped behind these impenetrable grey walls or being a slave. With someone like Derek, it wasn’t really a question. Then again, Derek wasn’t really the typical master. Half of the time Stiles can’t believe how lucky he is and the other half he is just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Derek to finally tire of him. It’s the uncertainty, the complete lack of control over his fate that slowly drives him crazy. Maybe he would prefer a prison after all.

After going through security and Derek giving away his phone and all personal belongings, Derek shoots him an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry, I’d love to give you some privacy with your dad, but…”

But it’s against the rules. Slaves must be accompanied by their masters. Stiles would love to have some alone time with his dad, to tell him how he much he missed him and maybe complain about his life without having to censor his every word but it is what it is. And Stiles will take what he can get.

“Don’t worry about it, Derek,” he says formally, painfully aware of the guards watching their every move.

They are finally ushered to the visiting room. It’s much larger than Stiles expected, filled with three rows of small tables with rigid plastic chairs, most of them occupied by an inmate on one side of the table and their visitor on the other side. Guards walk around the room, scanning the room intently, listening to muffled conversations.

Stiles stays frozen at the entry, his head spinning, ears assaulted by soft crying, laughing and angry murmuring, all blending together in an undistinguishable cacophony.

“Last table in the second row,” a guard pulls him from his moment of frozen panic with a pointed look.

Stiles’ eyes immediately dart in the given direction and his heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. His dad is sitting at the table, looking around anxiously but doesn’t see him yet. In his prison jumpsuit he looks… fragile, vulnerable almost. Stiles remembers him in his Sheriff’s uniform, radiating power and authority. His posture now is hunched and his shoulder are slouched. The silver in his hair has spread from his temples, leaving hardly any brown hair left.

His eyes finally meet Stiles’ and go wide in shock. Stiles wonders what he sees in him, how the last two years have changed him. Does he look thinner, worn and beaten? Or has his suffering hardened him, shaped into hard lines and sharp edges? He can’t really tell, as he’s been carefully avoiding mirrors, afraid of what he might see.

He doesn’t move, he’s not allowed to, but Stiles sees his body go rigid like he has to fight not to get up and run towards Stiles.

“Dad,” Stiles croaks out, his voice breaking, when he finally crosses the distance to their designated table.            

Before he knows it, he swept into a crushing hug and he wraps his arms around his father’s back, squeezing him tight. It’s perfect, it’s everything he ever dreamt of and it’s cut way too short by a barked _enough_ from a nearby guard.

They separate reluctantly and sit back in their seats, with Derek seating himself on Stiles’ right hand. From the corner of his eyes, Stiles sees him shift uneasily, clearly uncomfortable to be intruding on Stiles’ moment, but doesn’t pay him any mind.

They are silent at first. His father wipes his eyes, sniffling a little. Stiles takes a few measured breaths to collect himself. He can’t tear his eyes away from his dad, sitting just a few inches away from him, living and breathing, and yet so unreachable and far away.

“Stiles,” his dad says finally. “What- How did you…” Then his eyes land on Derek and he falls silent, his brows scrunching in confusion.

“Dad, this is Derek, he’s, uhm, he’s my…” He can’t make himself say it. Derek didn’t chose this and he has been nothing but kind to him, despite their rough start. By calling him a master he would put him on the same level as his previous two masters and that’s just… wrong.

Dad seems to get the idea anyway. His face turns cold, rage clearly simmering under the surface. He leans forward and Stiles suddenly panics that his dad will do something stupid and get them thrown out of the prison and taken out of the list of visitors.

“Dad,” Stiles says pleadingly. “Please, don’t. It’s not like that. I’m okay. Please.”

Finally, his dad seems to realize what he’s doing and he forces himself to relax, opening and closing his hands a couple of times, breathing deeply through his nose. The silence stretches on but the main crisis has been clearly averted.

Eventually, Stiles just can’t take it anymore. The question has been burdening him ever since he saw the mugshot and it just slips out of his lips the moment Stiles opens his mouth.

“What did you do?”

Shame creeps up on his dad’s face and he averts his eyes. “I, uh- Armed robbery,” he whispers eventually in a strained voice.

“You what? _Why?_ ” That’s not the important question, though. Stiles steels himself and asks: “How long did you get?”

“Five years. I’ve done two already.” The words start tumbling out and he stares at Stiles with an imploring look, as if begging him to understand. “After you disappeared, I looked for you everywhere. You have no idea how desperate I was. And then a guy said he knew where you were and would help me buy you back but that they were going to ship you away the next day and I needed to get the money…” He trails off and rubs his hands over his face. “I had to try. I had to. I had nothing more to lose.”

“You lost the house,” Stiles lashes out and regrets it immediately when he sees the hurt on his dad’s face. But the words are out and the damn is broken, spilling out all the piled-up fears and frustration.

“You lost your job. What are we going to do? I could’ve…” He steals a glance at Derek, who is sitting as stiff as a board, his eyes glued to the table.

“I could have gone home,” he whispers, feeling his eyes fill with tears. “Instead, I have to wait another three years? You have no idea what it’s like. You know how much can happen in three years? I can be on the other side of the globe by then!”

“Stiles,-” his dad starts but Stiles just shakes his head. They lapse into silence. Slowly, the tears dry and Stiles feels his anger dissipate.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry, too, Stiles. I’ll make this right, I promise. I’ll figure something out. I’m trying to get out as soon as possible, I already shaved off three months off the sentence. Just please, hold on. For me, okay?

“Okay,” Stiles agrees even though he wants to scream at unfairness of the situation.

The rest of the visit is awkward and stilted. Stiles asks about the prison life and they reminiscence about the past. His dad keeps glancing towards Derek and it is clear that he is itching to asks about how he’s treating Stiles but probably doesn’t believe he’ll get an honest answer anyway. Instead, Stiles tells him about his days and how they looked for him with Derek, hoping it will put at least some of the worries to rest.

Then the guards announce that the end of visiting time and Stiles gets up for his final hug. He fists his hands in his dad’s jumpsuit. The smell he came to associate with his dad, his favorite cologne, coffee and their cheap laundry detergent, it’s all gone, replaced by what Stiles only think of as prison, even though he never smelled it before. Still, he relishes the feeling of his dad’s solid form in his arms and tries not to think about what’s ahead of them.

“I’ll see you… when I can,” Stiles says. As much as he would love to say next Sunday, he doesn’t want to make promises he can’t keep.

“I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you too, dad.”

The inmates are then lined up and searched before being led back out of the room. Stiles has to avert his eyes – it feels so wrong to see his dad, who always seemed to be firmly in control of everything, reduced to this, just another inmate in line.

They go through the check out process wordlessly. Derek pockets his keys and phone and they head to the car. Once on the road, Derek finally breaks the suffocating silence.

“For what it’s worth, I would never send you to the other side of the globe.”

“Thanks,” Stiles sighs out, all of the emotional turmoil leaving him feeling completely drained. At this point, he is fairly sure Derek means it but he finds it hard to feel reassured.  He thinks about Peter and his stomach clenches in fear. Three years seem like a long time right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a shitty week and I'm just exhausted. But at least I finally finished this chapter, yay! Enjoy


	12. Chapter 12

Soon, life goes back to normal, as it always does. Derek spends most of the next couple of days working on the laptop, either closed in his room or cuddling on the couch. They don’t really discuss the visit, for which Stiles is thankful. He feels like he just needs time to process everything and to get his brain up to speed with the whole situation.

“You know,” Derek says one day, watching Stiles prepare dinner from his favorite spot at the kitchen table. “You could write him a letter. The guards open and read them of course, but still…”

A letter. It actually sounds good. To be able to think through what he wants to say, to rewrite it as many times as he needs, to carefully choose every word. And without Derek’s involuntary presence.

“Yeah, I think I will,” he says contemplatively, already thinking about what he wants to write.

“And we could visit maybe once a month? I don’t know if I can do every weekend,” Derek says apologetically, watching Stiles anxiously.

“What, no, that’s great, thank you!” Stiles hurries to reassure him. Once a month is so much better than he dared to hoped for just a few weeks ago.

“Good.” Derek sound relieved and leans back in his chair, clearly glad to have this off his chest.

“By the way, it’s full moon this weekend,” he says offhandedly and Stiles’ heart picks up. He hated full moons. The pull of the moon always made werewolves more in touch with their wolf, brought their viciousness and ferociousness to the surface. Every slave knew to make himself as small as possible on the night of the full moon. Never look the werewolf in the eyes. Never turn your back and run. Stiles learned that the hard way early on. Some nights he managed to survive the night unscathed, others he didn’t.

“Okay..?” He says carefully as he has no idea what to expect with Derek.

“Usually the pack comes over, you already know Peter and Cora, we hang out and then maybe go for a run,” Derek continues easily.

“Do I have to be involved?”

“You can, if you want to. You’re practically pack, anyway.”

“But do I have to?” Stiles repeats. He is not going anywhere near Peter during full moon if he can avoid it.

“No, you don’t _have_ to,” Derek replies, sounding annoyed.

“Okay, then.”

Derek sighs and rubs his face. “Fine!” he grunts and disappears in his room, closing the door with a loud bang. Stiles ignores the uneasy feeling in his stomach and turns his attention back to the pans.

 

The tension lingers throughout the dinner, despite Stiles’ stilted attempts at conversation. Stiles wonders whether Derek is feeling already restless with the full moon only a few days away. He is clearing the table, scooping the leftovers on one plate, when Derek remarks:

“I’m going to be gone most of the day tomorrow.”

Stiles drops the spoon on the plate, flinching at the loud sound. He turns around with wide eyes, heart in this throat.

“Can I come with you?”

“Well, I mean, it’s going to be boring, I have some meetings with clients and the bank….” Derek says, confusion clearly written on his face

“You won’t know I’m there, I promise. I’ll wait in the car if you want.” There’s a hint of panic in Stiles voice and Derek’s eyebrows rise.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I just don’t wanna be alone,” he mumbles. It’s the truth and Stiles hopes his heart won’t betray him. Maybe he should just tell Derek about Peter. He’s spent many dreamless hours turning this idea in his head, trying to find the courage to face Derek’s reaction. It’s hard to say if he’s more afraid of Derek already knowing or of him not doing anything about it so he just decides to ignore the issue. Deep down he knows it won’t solve anything but there’s a small sliver of hope that if he manages to avoid Peter long enough, the werewolf will eventually lose interest.

“You don’t have to stay in the apartment, you know. You can go for a coffee or whatever. I’ll leave you some cash.”

Stiles turns his best puppy eyes on Derek. His scowl softens and he sighs exasperatedly. “Ok, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re bored out of your mind!”

 

Stiles is having a blast. They are sitting in a café and Stiles is sipping one of those sugary, chocolate drinks with extra whipped cream and extra caramel. Derek, with an obligatory cup of black coffee in front of him, is deep in discussion with a client sitting in front of him.

Stiles tries to be as unobtrusive as possible so as not to make Derek regret taking him along, but he can’t help but eavesdrop. Stiles had no idea what Derek did for a living before, only that he was always on his laptop. He’s currently discussing the design of the client’s website and Stiles is watching him with interest.

He’s never seen business Derek before; he’s polite but efficient, always steering the client to the subject if they start to digress. He obviously knows what he’s doing and soon enough the client is leaving satisfied.

“What?” Derek asks when he catches Stiles looking at him.

“You’re pretty good at this. Do you like the job?”

Derek shrugs his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “It’s more of a hobby, I guess.”

Stiles turns it over in his head. The apartment, while not huge, is definitely a luxury for a single person and Derek’s car screams money. Hell, even his uncle buying him a slave is a pretty expensive gift. It seems money runs in the family.

“Wanna grab something to eat?” Derek asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Sure.”

They end up on a bench by the river, eating a noodle box with a plastic fork, enjoying the sun. Stiles takes in all the smells and revels in the feeling of fresh breeze on his skin. He hasn’t even realized how boxed in he was in the apartment. The idea of going out alone, defenseless, ties his stomach in knots, but with Derek – his firm body pressed against his side – he feels like nothing bad can happen to him.

 

On Saturday, the day before the full moon rises, Stiles takes extra care to clean the apartment and not to give Derek any reason to complain. He eyes the werewolf warily throughout the whole day but Derek doesn’t seem any different, if not more relaxed and at ease.

In the evening he prepares a few plates fancy fingerfood and snacks, despite Derek’s protests that they could just order pizza. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the past two years, it is how to help his master make a good impression on his guests. He’s not going to let his newly acquired skills go wasted. He even folds the napkins in various complex shapes.

He gives the apartment one last look-over. Satisfied, he grabs a plate of leftovers from the fridge and a bottle of water and carries them to his room.

“Do you need anything else?” He asks just to make sure, before closing the door.

“No, thank you,” Derek answers, sounding weirdly sad. It occurs to Stiles for the first time that maybe Derek would prefer him to attend their little get-together. A feeling of uneasiness settles in his stomach. He knows how easily these parties go wild during the full moon. And once the werewolves start looking for some entertainment, Stiles is always the perfect target. Then it doesn’t really matter if he’s hiding in his room without a lock on the door but it does make him feel marginally safer. Out of sight, out of mind, or something like that.

He pulls a sheet of paper and a pen from under his pillow, where he hid them earlier. The page is empty, save for the _Dear dad_ , written on top. Stiles stares at the paper, his frustration growing. This is so much harder then he thought. His mind is full of ideas and things he wants to tell his dad, but once he puts the pen on the paper, it goes completely blank and he’s frozen in indecision and fear.

It doesn’t take long for the pack to arrive and Stiles gives up on any attempts to write anything. He’s too distracted. For a while, he tries to eavesdrop but can’t really make out the words. He hears Peter’s smooth and sly voice up and now but mostly it’s Cora’s higher pitch that makes it through the door. They talk in hushed voices but the tone sounds solemn and tense, which does nothing to ease Stiles’ nerves.

The night drags on. Stiles tries to read but can’t get his mind to settle down. He hopes they’ll leave soon for their run, as he sort of needs to use the bathroom. In the end he just plops on the bed and tries to get some rest.

“Stiles!”

He jerks up from his slumber, sitting straight on the bed, heart pounding in his ears.

“Stiles!” Peter’s voice comes again from the living room and Stiles’ stomach drops. “Stop hiding in there and come join us!”

Not really seeing any other option than obeying, he slowly shuffles from the room. Peter is leaning back on the couch with a smug expression, while Cora, who is sitting next to him, is looking bored and is browsing on her phone. Derek is leaning against the wall, tension radiating from him all across the room.

“There he is. Pretty little thing isn’t he?”

Stiles stands stiffy in the middle of the room, safely out of reach, eyes trailed on the floor.

“Peter,” Derek growls warningly.

“What? I must say though, when I bought him, I didn’t think I was giving you _a maid_.”

Stiles can only imagine the glare Derek sends Peter’s way, as he’s too afraid to lift his eyes from the ground.

“I mean,” Peter purrs, “if he doesn’t do it for you, I’d be glad to take him off your hands.”

“Stop it.”

“Come on, nephew, don’t be like that. You should share your toys, hasn’t your mother taught you that?”

“Enough!” Derek shouts and before Stiles can comprehend what’s happening, he’s got Peter pinned against the wall. Derek bares his fangs and Stiles makes a little involuntary high-pitched noise of fear. He knew he hated full moons.

“I am your Alpha-”

“Oh, what a _fine_ Alpha you are.” Peter’s voice has lost all of its previous playfulness and is dripping venom and hatred. “Look at this pack, it’s pathetic. Can’t really blame Cora for wanting to move to New York. This would never have happened if it weren’t for you!”

Derek takes a step back as if he got burned. “Out. Both of you,” he barks out coldly and points to the door. Cora only sighs but goes without a word. Peter slowly strolls out with a smirk on his face, sparing one last look at Stiles on his way out.

The apartment falls silent and Stiles suddenly realizes that he’s alone in a room with a pissed werewolf. Derek is standing with his back turned to Stiles, his shoulder coiled tightly, hands balled in fists.

He tries to slow down his hammering heart so as not to make himself more of a prey. He realizes he hasn’t been afraid of Derek like this since his first few days and curses his own naivety once again. 

Derek turns around and Stiles takes a few panicked steps back despite his better judgement. His back hits the wall and he quickly remembers to avert his eyes so as not to look challenging. Before he does, though, he sees Derek’s face fall and the anger morph into something akin to despair. He quickly walks past Stiles and leaves the apartment without another word.

Stiles’ head is pounding and the anxiety balled up in his stomach is making him queasy. He has no idea what to make out of all this but he knows he won’t be able to go back to bed. He clears the leftover food and wipes the crumbles from the table, all the while listening for Derek returning.

When there’s nothing to do, he just paces around the apartment, watching the clock. It’s almost two in the morning. Will Derek even return tonight? He’s exhausted and his legs start to ache from standing so long. He sits down on the couch, curling up in a ball, and falls asleep before he even knows it.

 

The door closes with a soft click but Stiles sits up immediately, looking around with bleary eyes. Derek is standing in the doorway, looking frayed around the edges, sweat glistening on his forehead and soaking through his shirt.

The room bathes in the soft light of pre-dawn. Stiles slowly stretches his neck, trying to work out all the kinks from his muscles. Warily he tries to gauge Derek’s mood but his face is hidden in the shadow. His posture, however, is slumped and dejected.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on the couch, I know you told me not to-” Stiles tries carefully.

Derek just waves his hand dismissively and sits down next to Stiles, leaning his head back and looking intently at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry, too.”

Stiles is not sure what Derek is apologizing for so he just waits silently. Derek doesn’t follow up, though, and soon Stiles feels his eyes drooping again. He shuffles to lean against Derek’s shoulder. His nose is immediately filled with the strong smell of pine trees and sweat.

“Peter was right, you know,” Derek says after a long time and Stiles quickly blinks the sleep away. He’s not sure which of Peter’s comments Derek has in mind but it still sets him on edge.

“It was all my fault,” he says softly and Stiles’ heart aches at the look on Derek’s face. “I was stupid and in love. I should have known she was just using me. She burned the whole house down because she hated our kind. All my family… I was never supposed to be an Alpha.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Stiles disagrees vehemently. Derek doesn’t acknowledge him and they lapse back into silence. There isn’t really anything to say. _I’m sorry your family died_ just sounds so inadequate it’s an insult. Instead, he pulls Derek closer and wraps him into a proper hug. He looks so much younger and smaller, huddled on the couch like a heap of misery, and Stiles suddenly can’t remember why he was ever afraid of him.

They stay like this for a long time, until a dim light fills the room and Stiles’ arms start to ache. When they finally pull apart, there is something in Derek’s eyes that sends a jolt of electricity through Stiles’ whole body.

There’s a moment of frozen hesitation and but then the world tilts and suddenly they’re kissing. It’s hungry and messy, their teeth clacking together, and the warning bells in Stiles’ head go immediately off. At the same time, he never wants to stop. Derek’s lips are soft and warm and the stubble is scratching his face lightly.

When they finally pull apart for breath, his lips are tingling and he’s panting. His dick has taken interest, straining eagerly against his pants. Derek looks just as disheveled, his lips glistening and eyes burning feverishly.

Derek quickly stands up from the coach, smoothing his shirt nervously, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, we shouldn’t… I should just probably-” He points to the door of his bedroom. “Good night, Stiles.” And with that he disappears in his room, leaving Stiles alone on the couch.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologize in advance - I'm leaving for a week for a family vacation, I'm not sure I'll be able to update. I'll do my best but please be patient with me!

In the morning, Derek is nowhere to be found. Stiles prepares the breakfast, as usual, all the while watching the room to Derek’s room. His shoes and jacket are still at the door, though, so Stiles assumes he’s home.

After setting the food on the table, he gives it a couple of minutes for the delicious smell to waft under Derek’s door. When that’s not enough, he takes the hint. Derek doesn’t want to talk to him.

“I’ll leave it on the counter,” he mutters unhappily, well aware that Derek can hear him.

Stiles returns to his room, worry gnawing at his guts. _Stupid_. It was one thing to make out with a colleague from work and then suffer the awkwardness next morning, but Derek practically has Stiles’ life in his hands. He can’t bring himself to regret it though. The memory of the slick softness of Derek’s lips still sends a wave of tingling pleasure down his spine.

The door to Derek’s room opens and Stiles hears quick steps across the apartment. Before he can so much as reach the handle of his room, Derek’s gone again with a soft click of his door. Damn, he’s fast. Stiles has half a mind to camp out in the living room and wait for Derek to have to use the bathroom, but then thinks better of it. Yesterday was not easy on Derek, and if he needs time, Stiles is going to give it to him.

Instead, he pulls out the crumpled paper, running his hands to smooth it out. He takes a deep breath and clutches the pen so hard it creaks.

_Dear dad,_

_I hope you’re doing alright. I was so happy to see you last week but I know we didn’t really get to talk as openly as we would like to, so I thought I’d write you a letter._

_I didn’t even get the chance to tell you how sorry I am about all this. It was all my fault for sneaking out of the cinema in the first place. This would have never happen if I just listened to you. I’m sorry and I hope you can forgive me. And I’m sorry I got mad at you, I know you didn’t deserve it. I was just upset. If it was the other way round, I would have done anything to get you back, too. Probably something even more stupid._

_Also, please don’t hate Derek too much. It’s not really his fault. He treats me as an equal and I would have never been able to see if he hadn’t helped me. He even drove me to our house, which – by the way – hasn’t been sold yet and looks like some creepy abandoned house from a horror movie. Anyway, he really cares and I’ll be alright for the three years. You really don’t have to worry about me but please, please – don’t do anything stupid to get more on your sentence. I’ll be counting days until we’re back together._

_You’re probably wondering what happened to me in these past two years._

Stiles stills, hovering the pen above the paper. He’s sure his dad is wondering but does he really have to know? Stiles shouldn’t add his trauma to his dad’s long list of things to stress about. Still, he should probably give him something.

_After I got taken, I was sold to this huge mansion. There were at least a dozen of slaves and we had our own barracks. I barely ever saw the master, he had other people in charge. I cooked and cleaned and did whatever chores were required. After a year and half, I was sold to another man. I was like his personal assistant. I think he got bored of me after six months so he sold me back to center. From there I was bought as a gift for Derek._

He looks over the paragraph. There’s so much he doesn’t say out that there’s barely anything left. But he doesn’t want to tell his dad how the overseers, as well as the stronger slaves, took advantage of the younger slaves. About what it was like when he was woken up by a hand pressed against him mouth and another one down his pants. Or about the punishments and hunger and sleeping under a threadbare blanket when it was so cold he could see his breath.

He shakes his head and forces his eyes to focus back on the paper. His dad’s probably going to get his own ideas from the few sentences he wrote, anyway.

_I love you and I miss you everyday. I hope to see you soon, Derek said we could visit once a month. Take care and stay safe._

_Love,  
Stiles._

He folds the letter and puts it into an envelope. He has no idea how to address it so he just writes his dad’s name and places it on the kitchen table, hoping Derek will take care of it.

He spends the rest of the day in his room, hoping Derek will come to him when he’s ready to talk. The apartment stays silent, though. In the evening, hunger drives him out and he looks through the pantry. It’s almost as empty as when he first came here and so he just makes himself one bag of white rice. He hopes Derek will come around soon, as they really need to make another grocery run.

It doesn’t get better the following day. He sees the werewolf a couple of times, but Derek barely looks at him as he slinks to the bathroom and back. The letter disappears from the table but so does Derek and Stiles is left alone in the silent apartment with nothing but his anxiety.

He hides in his room, taking one of the kitchen chairs with him to block the door. It doesn’t look too sturdy and doesn’t do much to put Stiles’ nerves to ease. He curls into a ball in the corner furthest from the main door, hoping that perhaps Peter wouldn’t be able to hear his heart from there.

The day goes by in a tortuous crawl. Stiles keeps his breathing as silent as possible, yet it still resonates through the empty room. Every little sound and creak has him on edge, sending his heart into overdrive. He ignores his hunger and thirst, too afraid to move from the imagined safety of his room.

Most of the room is hidden by late evening shadows by the time he finally hears the main door open. After making sure it’s really Derek, he springs up on his numb legs and hobbles to the living room.

Derek is just about to disappear in his room but Stiles is faster.

“Enough!” he barks out, hint of desperation in his voice. He’s never talked like this to his master and it turns his stomach in fear.

Derek’s posture goes tense but he turns around and looks at Stiles with a wretched expression.

“Derek, please. Don’t…” _Don’t leave me again, don’t be that closed-off asshole again…_ Stiles is not sure what he wants to say.

Derek takes a deep breath and then finally takes a step towards Stiles.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I just… what happened – it wasn’t right. You’re a… you’re a…”

“A slave.” Stiles says it out loud for Derek.

“Exactly! I’m taking advantage of you and I don’t want to be that guy. You can’t just say, sorry it’s not working, and move away. I can’t let you go and I won’t sell you to anyone else. We can’t be like this. It’s not right.”

There are dark circles under Derek’s eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept or shaved in days.

“Okay. You’re right. I get it,” Stiles says calmly as if not to spook a wild animal. “I liked it, though,” he whispers softly.

Derek smiles sadly and cautiously extends his arms. Stiles doesn’t have to be told twice. He wraps Derek in a hug, embarrassed at the tears stinging his eyes.

“I liked it, too.”

“We can wait, right? Until I’m not…” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s shirt.

“Yeah. We’ll wait.”

Derek runs his hand soothingly on Stiles’ back, while Stiles sniffles quietly.

“I’m so sorry, I’m don’t know why I freaked out like this…”

Stiles laughs wetly, wiping his eyes and finally pulling away. “It’s okay. But don’t shut me off like this again? Please?”

“I won’t.”

“Thank you. Can we order a pizza?”

 

After finishing the pizza, they cuddle on the couch, Derek already half asleep. Stiles, on the other hand, can’t stop his feet from jiggling with nervous energy. The air in the apartment tastes stale and he suddenly feels like there’s not enough oxygen. It’s been too long since he went outside and if he has to look at the bare white walls for another minute, he’ll scream.

“Derek?” he nudges the sleeping werewolf.

“Hm?”

“Is it okay if I take a short walk? Get some fresh air?”

Derek sits up and studies Stiles intently. “Sure. Will you be alright?”

“Yeah, just around the block, I won’t take long.”

He runs down the stairs and takes a gulp of the cool evening air. It is getting a little chilly so he sets up a brisk pace to keep himself warm. He keeps his eyes down and puts his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, enjoying the burning in his lungs and stretch of his legs.

As promised, he only walks around the block. The last thing he wants is to get lost. Then he sees a small park and heads for the bench. He plops down and watches the people go around their business. It’s not too busy at this time of the day and nobody pays him any attention. It’s peaceful and Stiles savors it until his finger start to go numb from the cold and his ass is freezing.

He’s about to go when he sees from the corner of his eyes somebody approaching him. Quickly, he jumps up and heads towards the apartment, heart in his throat.

“Hey, you!”

He turns around and sees a uniformed officer stroll towards him. Stiles smiles politely and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He’s doing nothing wrong and he has nothing to hide. Then why is heart beating like crazy?

The man stops a few steps away and watches Stiles intently. His nostrils flare and Stiles immediately knows he’s a werewolf.

“Your ID.” The man barks, his hands resting on his utility belt.

“Um, I don’t… have one. Sir.”

Annoyance is clearly visible on the officer’s face. “Alright, kid, where’s your master? Are you sneaking out?”

“No! He’s at home, he knows I’m here, I swear.” He prays the man will listen to his heartbeat and know he’s telling the truth but from the look on his face, it doesn’t seem likely he’ll bother.

“Uh-huh,” he says disinterestedly and pulls out a handheld scanner from his belt. Stiles is grabbed by the hoodie and pushed down on his knees. He lets himself be manhandled and bares his neck, hoping he’ll get points for cooperation. The scanner touches the back of his neck and makes a beeping noise.

“You’re on home confinement,” the man growls.

“What, that’s impossible!” Stiles shrieks trying to twist around and look at the device. The werewolf has a strong grip on him, though, and Stiles doesn’t stand a chance.

“Derek!” he tries shouting in a desperate attempt as handcuffs are slapped on his wrists and he’s dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooops. Sorry again! I don't know why I'm so mean to Stiles, lol.


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles is thrown in the back of a nearby parked police cruiser. The officer starts the car without a further word, not paying Stiles any attention.

“Are you taking me home?” he dares to ask in a small voice.

The man scoffs and Stiles sees him glare at him in the rearview mirror. “I’m not a taxi service. You’re going to the station. Your master will be notified and he can pick you up. After paying the penalty, that is.”

Stiles sags in relief. Derek will come for him and they’ll go home. He holds onto this thought as fear gnaws at him.

It’s not far to the station and soon enough Stiles is grabbed again and pulled out of the car so hard he fights to get his feet under him. He barely has time to look around before he is pushed towards a bored looking man sitting at the table.

“I’ve got a runaway, take care of him, will you?”

 _I’m not a runaway_ , Stiles wants to argue but bites his tongue hard. Now is not the time to get mouthy.

The man gets from the table and stretches. Then he reaches to one of the drawers and pulls out a standard shock collar. Stiles flinches at the sight of it. He hates that thing – all slaves wear in the center. His neck itches with the phantom pain from the shocks.

Still, he holds still when the man fastens it up. He pockets the remote and leads Stiles down the corridor into a bare room.

“Strip,” he orders, standing a few steps away, arms resting on his hips.

Stiles finds a slight comfort in the disinterested expression on the man’s face but his cheeks still burn with shame. The man searches him thoroughly, checking even behind Stiles’ ear and between his fingers.

Stiles bears it with gritted teeth, repeating _Derek is coming_ in his head like a mantra. Still, tears of humiliation sting in his eyes when he’s asked to squat and cough. Finally, clothed in ill-fitting scrubs, he is steered into a small holding cell, consisting of a small cot, a toilet and a sink.

He stands in the middle of the cell, clutching the waistband of the pants to prevent them from sliding down his hips.

“Have you called my master yet?” he asks but the man only glares at him in reply and leaves without a word.

When he’s finally left alone, he lefts out a breath and sits on the cot. It’s as feels as hard as it looks and Stiles hopes he won’t have to spend the night. It is quite late, though. What if they wait until morning to call Derek? Then again, Derek is probably looking for him by now. If he doesn’t find him outside, will he think of calling the center? They should be able to tell him Stiles’ location if he tells them he lost his slave.

Still, they might not allow Derek to pick him until morning. Stiles imagines Derek barging into the station, all Alpha eyes and fangs, demanding Stiles be returned to him immediately. The idea makes him smile despite the fear still coiled in his stomach.

All the fear, however, can’t completely push out the anger he feels, as much as he tries to quell it. It’s not fair. Derek obviously had no idea he was supposed to change the perimeter for Stiles’ allowed movement. He is his master, though. He is supposed to take care of Stiles and yet, he sent him outside without knowing if it was safe.

It feels like barely half an hour before the man from before is back. He’s carrying Stiles’ clothes in a bag and he throws them inside.

“Get dressed, you’re leaving.”

 _Oh, thank fuck,_ Stiles thinks as he hurries to obey. He shrugs the scrubs immediately without sparing a though to his modesty. He’s dressed in record time and waiting by the door to be let out.

“The collar?” he asks hopefully, trying to make his voice as undemanding as possible.

“It stays on. As requested by your master.”

That sends cold dread through his bones and his steps falter. There’s nothing he can do, though, as he’s pushed by the man down the corridor again into the reception room.

He’s not really surprised when he sees Peter waiting at the counter, a shit-eating grin spreading on his face when he sees Stiles. 

“Wait, no, that’s not-” Stiles tries to say and dugs in his heels.

“Shut it!” Peter interrupts him. “I don’t want to hear a word.”

“But-” His neck lights up in pain, sending a shock of electricity down his body so strong his knees buckle. He’s gasping for breath, clawing at the damned collar, and he feels a strong hand grab him by the bicep and lift him up.

“Thank you again for picking him up, officers. Have a nice day.”

When he finally gets his bearing together, he’s standing in front of a car, Peter still holding him tight by the arm.

“Get in,” he orders curtly.

Stiles only stares at him, contemplating whether he’d survive the day if he spat in the werewolf’s face.

Peter rolls his eyes and sighs. “Get in, I’m taking you to your beloved Derek, don’t you worry.”

Stiles climbs in the back of the car, not really seeing any other option. Peter starts the car and pulls into the traffic. Stiles catches Peter’s gleeful eyes in the rear view mirror.

“You know, I was having a perfectly enjoyable evening, when I got a call that apparently _my slave_ has been found running around while being grounded.”

Stiles glares at him, trying to summon as much hate as he can to hide his fear. He’s not going to give Peter the satisfaction.

“He just doesn’t really care, does he, Derek? Not only didn’t he set up your chip properly, he didn’t even bother to change the contact info.”

Stiles doesn’t dignify that with an answer, even as he fumes on the inside. Instead, he looks out of the window and sees the traffic dwindling as they’re approaching the outskirts.

“That’s not the way to Derek’s,” Stiles points out uselessly.

“We’re taking a little detour,” Peter answers, smirking.

“Derek’s gonna kill you if you so much as harm a hair on my head,” Stiles says with a confidence he doesn’t really feel.

“I’d better be gentle then, don’t I?” Peter sounds clearly amused and Stiles just shuts up and stares out of the window. Peter soon turns onto a dirt road, making the car bounce up and down as they travel deeper and deeper into the woods. Without any public lighting, the darkness is nearly impermeable and Stiles can’t see further than the nearest tree.

Finally, Peter stops the car. He shuts off the engine and turns to Stiles with a glint in his eyes.

“Be nice to me, and I’ll bring you to Derek right afterwards,” he says softly. Stiles stays stubbornly still, his hands balled into fists, and he sees Peter’s smile turn cold. “Or I can drag you out of the car and take you against a tree, your choice.”

After a beat of frozen silence, Peter sighs and turns around to leave the car. Stiles seizes the chance, jumps out of the car and runs away as fast as he can. He can hear Peter chuckle behind him and call out:

“Even better, I love a good chase. I’ll give you a head start.”

Soon, Stiles realizes just how much he didn’t think it through. He has no idea where he’s going as he’s stumbling in the dark, tripping over the roots. Small branches keep whipping at his face, even as he tries to protect it using his hands.

Soon, he’s out of breath, panting so hard he must be heard from miles away. But there’s no turning back so he just keeps going, from tree to tree, his hand outstretched to find his way in the darkness.

He doesn’t hear Peter approach and he goes down immediately when he jumps him. He starts fighting in earnest but Peter just grabs both his wrists in an iron grip and pins him to the forest floor, face first.

“I could just shock you into submission, but what fun would that be,” Peter says easily, not out of breath at all.

Still pinning him with one hand, he uses the other hand to undo his pants. Stiles buckles and writhes, trying to make it as difficult as possible. Thank god he chose to wear his jeans today instead of sweatpants with an elastic waistband, he thinks hysterically.

Peter huffs impatiently and lets go of his hands, pinning him down with a knee in the middle of Stiles’ back. “Help!” he shouts, slipping into blind panic. He grabs dirt and dry pine needles and tries throwing at Peter’s face, but the werewolf doesn’t seem to notice.

“We could’ve had fun, I don’t know why you’re making this hard for you,” Peter sounds as if talking to a petulant child. He finally manages to wrestle the pants down and Stiles feels the cold evening air on his naked buttocks.

Suddenly, the weight is lifted and there is a loud thud as Peter is thrown with such a force he hits a tree, bark exploding everywhere. Stiles scrambles away, pulling up his pants in the process, and hides behind a tree.

He peeks out from behind his cover and sees Derek, his red eyes shining in the dark. Before he can call out to him, Peter lunges himself at Derek and the two werewolves become a whirl of bodies. They are ridiculously fast and Stiles struggles to make out anything in the dark. All he can hear is the rustling of grass and grunting and growling of both men.

Soon it becomes apparent that while Derek is obviously stronger, Peter is faster and a better fighter. Derek seems fuelled by rage but Pet is as calm and collected as ever. He evades Derek’s blows and takes advantage of every opening, slashing his claws across Derek’s chest, making the younger man roar in pain.

Stiles starts to panic anew. Frantically, he takes one of the nearby lying sticks and clutches it to his chest. The werewolves are too engrossed in their fight to pay him any mind. He waits for Peter to turn his back and then smashes his head with the stick, lending all his strength into the blow.

The wood is dry and all but shatters at the impact. Still, it makes Peter turn around for a second, giving Derek the chance to grab him by the throat and pin him to the floor. After a few seconds of futile thrashing, Peter realizes he can’t throw Derek off and he stills, glaring hatefully at him.

“Come on then. Do it!”

Derek holds his claws at Peter’s throat, pressing against the artery. For a moment, Stiles expects him to slash it but then Derek’s shoulders sag and he just stands up.

“Get out of my sight,” he growls.

Peter slowly gets up and dusts his pants. His smirk is mirthless and full of hatred but he turns away and leaves. Derek stays rigid for a minute, clearly listening. He relaxes in a while and Stiles assumes Peter has really left.

He finally turns his attention to Stiles, his face contorting with worry.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles just nods, suddenly unable to find the words. His hands start to shake and he throws away the stick he’s still holding. Derek quickly traverses the distance between them. He gently lifts Stiles’ head and cuts the collar with his claws, letting it fall to the floor.

“Let’s go home.” He swipes Stiles into a bridesmaid carry and quickly strides away. Stiles doesn’t even protest. He’s shaking hard now and feels cold to the bone. Hiding his face in Derek’s chest, a sob tears it way out despite his efforts to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’m so sorry,” Derek mutters. “I’m so so sorry.”

They make it to the car and Derek starts the engine, turning the heat all the way up. He doesn’t drive though, just watches Stiles with a worried expression.

After the shaking subsides, Stiles forces himself to unclench his teeth and take in a few deep breaths.

“How did you find me?” he asks finally.

“When you didn’t come back, I went looking for you. I tracked your smell but it just disappeared. After panicking for a while, I called the center. They told me you’ve been picked up already and showed me how to use the chip to track you. When I found Peter’s car here, I just followed my nose.”

Stiles just nods and stays silent. He’s afraid if he opens his mouth, he’ll start crying again.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again. He sounds so gutted, Stiles’ heart aches in sympathy.

“It’s okay. You found me.” Suddenly, he’s feeling exhausted. He rests his head against the door and hugs his knees close. Even with his eyes closed he feels Derek hesitate for a few moments. Eventually, though, he just starts to drive without another word.

 

When they finally make it home, Stiles is barely dragging his feet. Still, he heads directly to the bathroom and gets to the shower, turning the water as hot as he can stand. He probably zones out a couple of times and is brought back to reality by Derek knocking on the door, asking if he’s okay.

He hesitates with a hand of handle of his door, unable to make himself go inside the empty room.

“I don’t want to sleep alone,” he says quietly.

“Me neither.” Derek takes him by the hand and leads him to his room. It occurs to Stiles that this is the first time he’s seen the other side of that door but he’s too tired to care. He curls up on the bed, Derek spooning him from behind. With Derek’s reassuring warmth behind him, he falls asleep immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally! It'll only get better now, I promise:)


	15. Chapter 15

Stiles wakes up and looks around in confusion. The bed he’s on is the most comfortable thing he’s experienced in years and he’s beautifully warm. There’s an arm thrown over him and he feels Derek’s chest pressed against his back.

Oh right, that happened. Stiles takes a moment and just listens to Derek’s deep breathing. He looks around the room, surprised at how bare and impersonal it looks. A table with only a laptop on it, a set of drawers and a chair. Just like the rest of the apartment, it looks like something from a stock photo.

Derek shifts a little, grunting happily and pulls Stiles even closer. Stiles’ breath catches as feels Derek’s erection press against his back and his heart starts beating fast. His own dick is standing to attention, twitching eagerly at the idea.

Slowly, Stiles turns around to face Derek. All his muscles scream in protest and it takes way more effort than he anticipated. His little run through the woods yesterday clearly took its toll. When he finally settles downs, he finds Derek watching him, his green eyes only small slits.

“Good morning,” Stiles says even though it’s probably closer to noon, judging by the light in the room.

“G’morning.” Derek’s voice is still rough from sleeping. Keeping his eyes locked with Derek’s, Stiles slowly moves his leg and rubs it against Derek’s erection tenting in his pyjama pants. Derek immediately scoots back, putting as much space between them as the bed allows.

“Stiles,” he says warningly. Stiles wants to whine impatiently and pout his lips but when he sees Derek’s expression he stops himself. It’s serious and pleading and Stiles feels his playful mood disappear. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Derek is his master. But that’s way it is and Derek doesn’t want to have it on his conscience that he took advantage of someone who can’t say no. Stiles needs to respect that, as much as his dick disagrees.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Derek smiles and moves a little closer, yet far enough to prevent their bodies from touching. He runs his finger gently across Stiles’ face, tracing the shape of his jaw.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Derek doesn’t sound too convinced but doesn’t push it. “I’ve got some things I need to take care of today.” He gets from the bed with a grunt and fishes some clothes from a pile on the floor. “I’ll try to get back as soon as possible.”

Stiles watches Derek get dressed and his anxiety starts to rise again. “Can you add changing the lock to the list of your chores?”

Derek’s look of surprise immediately turns dark. “I need to make a phone call.”

 

They are not even finished with their late breakfast when the locksmith arrives. He changes the lock and installs two sturdy looking bolts on the door, one on top and one on the bottom. Derek gives Stiles one set of keys and puts on his jacket.

“We’ll talk in the evening. Try to get some rest.”

The silence in the apartment is suffocating. Stiles turns on the TV to have some background noise and just plops on the couch. Moving hurts too much. He managed to rip off one of his fingernails yesterday and now his finger is throbbing with pain.

He skips lunch, opting to stare at the ceiling instead. His Kindle is lying untouched by his bed in his room but it might as well be on the other side of the planet with his body feeling like it weights a ton. The memory of Peter’s hands on him is still so fresh he can almost feel them. It turns his stomach and he focuses on taking deep breaths through his nose so as not to throw up.

It’s fucked up. He has no idea what his status is now. Was the contract really written in Peter’s name or did he just put his phone number there? Was Derek promising him to let him go while not even officially owning him? The thought makes him so mad he wants to punch something if only his muscles didn’t feel like jelly.

When Derek finally comes back, he finds Stiles in exact same position, lying like a dead weight on the couch. He does manage to bend his legs, though, to make room for Derek.

Derek sits down and throws a wad of papers on the table. He takes Stiles’ legs and places them on his lap. He wraps his hand around his ankle, frowning.

“May I?”

“May you what? Oh.” Black veins are run up Derek’s arms again and Stiles sags against the couch. All the pain and tension dissipate and are replaced by a warm fuzzy feeling. Immediately, Stiles’ eyes start to droop. He forces himself to stay awake, though.

“How’d go?”

“Good, I guess.” Gently, he starts to rub the soles of his feet and Stiles moans, his cheeks turning red with embarrassment.

“Got the papers in order. Had an emergency pack meeting. Turns out I’m officially pack-less now,” Derek shrugs, feigning indifference, but his voice is heavy and tired.

“What?” Stiles sits up a little to look at Derek.

“I banished Peter. He’s an omega now. I don’t care where he goes, as long as he stays away from us.”

“What about Cora?”

“She’s moving to New York. She’s young, ambitious… can’t really blame her,” he shrugs again.

“But- What about you? About us?”

Derek looks at his hands and takes a long time to answer. “I think we should move, too.”

Stiles’ stomach suddenly turns cold. It’s not that he hasn’t dreamed of visiting the Big Apple, experiencing the rush and excitement, but moving there – he would be thousands of miles away from his dad, he could forget about his monthly visits. At the same time, he gets it. Cora is his family, why wouldn’t Derek want to be near her. Why should he care about what Stiles wants. He doesn’t have a choice, anyway, and that thought weirdly calms him. He’ll follow Derek wherever he goes and just deal with it as best as can.

“To Beacon Hills, I mean,” Derek adds and Stiles heart stops again, this time for an entirely different reason. He just gapes at Derek, who hurries to explain. “There’s nothing holding me here. I hate this apartment, anyway. You’d be close to your dad. I mean… if you want to… or not, we don’t have to…” He sounds more and more uncertain when Stiles doesn’t say anything and just keeps staring.

Finally, Stiles’ brain is kicked back online. “Yes! Absolutely, I do want to. I just didn’t think you’d want to…”

“I think we could use a fresh start.”

Stiles can’t argue with that so he just lies back down and closes his eyes. A smile spreads on his face when he thinks about going back to Beacon Hills. It feels coming home, even though the situation is far from ideal. Still, Stiles is already looking forward to making their new apartment a nice place for them, more… theirs.

“Let’s eat,” Derek interrupts his daydreaming.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll put something together, give me a minute.” He gathers the mental strength to get his muscles to work to get from the couch when Derek gently pushes him back.

“Why don’t I make us something?”

“Like ramen noodles?” Stiles teases. He would totally eat instant noodles, though, if it meant he gets to not move.

“Funny. I was thinking scrambled eggs? How hard can that be. You’ll walk me through it.”

Derek ends up making grilled cheese sandwiches and scrambled eggs, following every Stiles’ instruction with utmost care and a frown of concentration on his face. They eat on the couch in companionable silence, both lost deep in thought.

When it’s time to go to bed, Stiles heads automatically to Derek’s room. It feels natural and Derek doesn’t comment, just smiles a little and holds the door open for Stiles.

Curled up on the bed, with Derek pressed against his back, Stiles is ready to sleep for the next few days. Before he lets himself be drift away, though, he whispers to the darkness.

“You’re not packless, though. You’ve got me.”

Derek doesn’t answer for a long time and Stiles starts to doze off. He’s not sure if he dreams the quiet _thank you_ but he passes out for good before he can find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short little chapter for you, enjoy. 
> 
> Btw, I added unresolved sexual tension to tags, lol:-D


	16. Chapter 16

The next week Derek seems always busy, looking for a new place, Stiles assumes. He doesn’t ask Stiles’ opinion or discuss it with him, and Stiles is only a little bit hurt. It’s fine. He doesn’t really care where they go as long as he has a place to sleep. He doesn’t even need his own bed. Sharing with Derek is much more fun, anyway.

Some days, Derek’s gone from morning till evening. Residual anxiety still hums under his skin, but mostly he’s able to relax behind their new safety locks. He doesn’t really bother cleaning, knowing they’ll be gone soon and so he just watches TV or reads.

Despite Derek’s reassurances that he put everything in order, he still doesn’t feel like going outside. Derek even showed him online that he removed the restrictions on his chip but the mere thought of stepping outside the door makes his stomach clench with fear.

At the end of the week, just when Stiles is about get his lazy body to get up from the couch and prepare some dinner, Derek comes back to the apartment, carrying a stack of unfolded boxes. He throws them on the floor in the middle of the living room and takes a deep breath.

“I think it’s time,” he says, looking at what used to be Stiles’ room.

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. They proceed to stand awkwardly in silence, neither of them making the first move. Derek stays frozen, hunched and tense. Stiles sits down on the floor and starts to fold the first box. “Can I help?”

“Yes, please,” Derek sighs out in relieve and joins Stiles on the floor. Together they fold the boxes in silence, Derek clearly deep in thought.

“You don’t have to throw the things away, you know that right?”

“I really should, though. Most of it is damaged anyway. The rest is just… worthless,” he says quietly and it sounds suspiciously as if he’s repeating what he’s heard before, probably from Cora and Peter.

“Okay,” Stiles gets an idea. “Maybe you should pick one thing for every member of your family, something to remember them by. We’ll keep that. Then the rest we can sort to what needs to be thrown away and what can be salvaged and donated. What do you think?”

For the first time since he entered the apartment, Derek lifts his eyes and smiles at Stiles. “Yeah, I like that.”

Stiles ends up doing most of the work, while Derek watches from a respectable distance and directs him. He doesn’t really mind, though. Anything that will make this easier for Derek. He carries the things into the main living room, spreading them out on the floor. The clouds of dust swirling from them make him cough and he’s glad he decided not to clean.

He rummages through the boxes of decorative glassware and tableware, checking each item if it’s broken or not. Then he sorts the piles of clothes – dresses and coats, some of them burnt, some mold smelling and eaten by clothes moths. When he gets to the toys, his throat closes up and tears burn in his eyes. He works as quickly as possible, not looking at Derek who is sitting by the wall, hugging his knees.

Derek chooses one thing for each person – a beautiful scarf for his mother, a chess set for his father, a book or a little stuffed animal for his cousins and nephews and nieces. They put all of them in one box and set it aside. The rest they take to the car immediately, both desperate to get it over with. They stop by the containers and then at the local goodwill, donating anything that could still be used.

When they return to the apartment, they open the windows to air out the dust and smell. Stiles is standing by the window, taking in deep breaths of fresh air, when Derek approaches him and hugs him from behinds.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder.

They stay like this for a long time, long enough for Stiles to realize how hungry he is. It’s late at night and they still haven’t eaten dinner.

“Come on, let’s order some Chinese, I’m starving.”

 “Oh, I know exactly the place,” Derek smiles and goes to retrieve his phone.

 

Only two days later, they are standing at the door, looking over the cleared apartment. It doesn’t look that much different. The furniture stays, as it wasn’t Derek’s in the first place. They only packed their personal belongings and they all fit in a single suitcase.

“Bye bye, apartment, see you never,” Stiles says and closes the door with a final click.

“Let’s go,” Derek puts his hand on Stiles’ lower back and leads him out of the building. Once in the car, Stiles immediately lets out a yawn.

“I thin I’m gonna close my eyes for a second,” he says, already feeling the hum of the car engine lulling him to sleep. He’s exhausted. Last night he’s been tossing and turning for the better part of the night, unable to get his mind to quiet down.

He sleeps for most of the journey, waking up and now to look at world pass by the windows. They stop for a coffee and gas but Stiles stays in the car, too comfy to get out. Once they’re on the road again, he’s back to his slumber. He only hopes Derek doesn’t mind he’s not much of a company.

 

He feels his mouth hang open when he’s nudged gently by Derek. Quickly, he wipes the drool off his chin and looks around.

“Stiles! We’re here.”

“Wh- Oh.” Stiles rubs his eyes, trying to shake the sleep off. He’s still groggy when looks out of the window, completely uncomprehending for a while.

“What- why are we here?” he asks, confused, looking at the familiar street. They are parked in the driveway of his old home, which looks as neglected as before, only the signs seems to have gone.

“I bought the house,” Derek says, watching Stiles with a slightly apprehensive expression, as if afraid of Stiles’ reaction.

“You- what do you mean, bought the house?!”

“I contacted the bank and bought the house. With cash. It’s ours. I mean, technically it’s mine, but…”

A turmoil of emotions swells in Stiles’ chest. He feels like crying and laughing and everything in between. Instead jumps out of the car, runs around and pulls Derek out of the driver’s seat to crush him in a hug.

“I can’t believe you, why didn’t you tell me!”

“Well I wasn’t sure I would be able to, and then I wanted to surprise you.”

Stiles laughs, an edge of hysteria creeping in his voice. “Well, you definitely surprised me.”

After a long while, when his heart finally slows down a bit, he releases Derek and looks at the house again. There’ll be a lot of work to restore it to how it was before but Stiles can’t wait to get his hands on it. Now that it is actually theirs, with no mortgage above their heads, they could probably even refurbish it, maybe a new paint, and fix the rusty pipes…

He is getting ahead of himself, his mind running hundred miles an hour. Derek just smiles knowingly and hands him the key.

“Come on, let’s see what the damage is.”

He takes his hand and together they walk towards their new home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little happy, sappy chapter for you. I'm really sorry but we're nearing the end here. I know this fic could go on in many different directions but that's not what I had in mind when I started to write this. I really always wanted something short and uncomplicated (mostly). I'm glad I got this far and that you stuck with me. Expect one or two more chapters, tops.


	17. Chapter 17

2.5 years later

“Stop it, you’re freaking me out,” Derek sighs from where he’s sitting at the couch, working on the laptop.

“Sorry,” Stiles says sheepishly and stops his nervous pacing. Instead, he plops down on the couch and groans dramatically.

“How can you even work?”

“We still have an hour before we have to leave,” Derek answers unsure, glancing at the clock.

“That’s not what I meant.” Stiles has been able to do anything today, other than watch the clock and count minutes. His laptop is sitting untouched on the table. He has a few projects that need to be finished soon but he knows he’s not going to get any work done today. As much as loves web designing that Derek has been teaching, his mind is currently occupied.

“Shouldn’t you be more nervous than me?”

Derek finally sets the laptop aside and looks at Stiles. “We’ve been seeing your dad every week for the last two years. It’s gonna be ok, trust me.” He pulls Stiles closer, wrapping his arm around him. When Stiles stays silent, he adds: “You know he likes me.”

That’s true, Stiles knows his dad soon understood how much Derek’s helped him and that he cared about him. He still didn’t know the true nature of their relationship, though. It just didn’t feel right to tell him in a room full of strangers with guards listening to their every word, and he sure as hell didn’t want to come out to his dad in a letter.

“Yeah. He’s gonna be pissed though. With you being my master, and all…”

“You know that’s gonna change soon,” Derek says fiercely, his jaw set in a line, and Stiles feels a little guilty. Derek hates his status as much as Stiles but there’s not much he can do about it. It’s against the stupid law to set slaves free. Only immediate family members are allowed to buy a person’s freedom back by paying the original selling price. One half of it goes to the master and the other to center. His dad would never be able to afford it and even though Stiles has been saving from his programing jobs, the amount required is just ridiculous. Derek promised to come up with the money and he did, even though it couldn’t have been easy for him.

“I’m sorry about the car,” Stiles says softly but Derek just waves his hand.

“It’s just a car. It was really impractical, anyway. Where would your dad sit?” he asks lightly, eliciting a smile from Stiles. Derek didn’t even blink when he had to sell the car to get the money for Stiles’ freedom but Stiles knew he cared about the Camaro.

Stiles slides from under Derek’s arm and straddles his lap. He leans down and kisses Derek lightly, just a brush of the lips. “You’re the best,” he breathes out. He deepens the kiss, letting the tongue explore Derek’s mouth, while roaming his hands across Derek’s chest.

He feels Derek hardening under him and when they finally pull apart, his lips are red and glistening invitingly.

“Keep that on and we’ll be late,” Derek warns breathlessly and Stiles pecks a final kiss on Derek’s cheek before getting off.

“Nu-huh, let’s go.”

 

They park their beat-up Mitsubishi in their usual spot at the prison parking lot. Instead of heading towards the entrance for visitors, as they always do, they go to the main reception. They are still fifteen minutes too early, so Derek buys a coffee from the vending machine in the corner and Stiles gets himself a hot chocolate, just to have something to do with his hands.

They find themselves two free seats and sit down. Stiles sips at the chocolate, its artificial flavour leaving a chemical aftertaste in his mouth. Derek phone chirps in his pocket and the lady at the counter glares at them, pointing to the _Silence your cell phones_ sign.

“Sorry,” Derek mouths apologetically and fumbles with the sound setting. Then he opens the incoming message and smiles fondly. He tilts the phone for Stiles to see, showing him a picture of a group of young people with Cora grinning in the middle. It looks like they're on Empire State Building, with the New York skyline visible behind them.

“Aw,” Stiles admires. “Cora’s pack looks like really nice.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, sounding distant.

Stiles’ heart aches. He wonders if Derek ever regrets not going with her, regrets choosing Stiles. Does he miss his pack? Is he lonely without other werewolves?

Probably smelling his mood going sour, Derek turns to him immediately. “I do miss her sometimes but I wouldn’t change a thing. You know that. You’re all the pack I need.”

Before Stiles can answer, the door opens and his dad enters, clutching a small plastic bag in his hand. Stiles jumps out of the chair, spilling the rest of the chocolate on the floor. He barely notices as he runs towards his dad and crushes him in a hug.

“Oh, I’m not letting go any time soon,” he laughs out loud. Without any guards to bark order at them, they savour their embrace for a long time, breathing in each other’s scent.

“I’m so glad to have you back,” Stiles sighs.

“Me too. I missed you so much, kiddo.”

When they finally pull apart, his dad’s eyes shine and Stiles wipes away his own tears. Only then does he notice Derek standing awkwardly a few steps back and turns to him with a smile.

“Welcome back, sir,” Derek says and extends his hand.

“Oh, come on,” his dad laughs and pulls Derek close for a hug as well. Stiles can’t help but laugh at Derek’s wide eyes, but he hugs back, grinning at Stiles.

 

Back home, Stiles gives his dad a tour around the house showing him every little improvement and renovation they’ve made. When they moved in, the house was in mostly the same condition he as before. He remembered the surreal feeling when he first entered what used to be his room. All the furniture was there, all covered in dust and webs. His things, though, were gone. His books, comics, collectibles, even the stuffed animals – all probably sold to cover some of the debt.

He was a little bummed but they were just things. They completely redecorated his old room anyway; they threw away the small bed and replaced it with a king sized one, added a new computer table for Derek and a chair. It was a little crowded but he can’t imagine not sharing a room with Derek.

He’s in the middle of showing his dad every new picture on the wall when Derek intervenes. “Give John a break, let’s eat.”

“Oh yeah. Dad, I made your favorite steaks, come on.”

“You’re the best, kiddo. I’m not sure you can beat prison cooking, though,” he jokes.

Stiles takes the meat that has been marinating since the day before and throws it on the grill while Derek and dad set the table. He can see Derek is a little tense from the way he holds himself. It must be weird, for both of them actually. Stiles only hopes the tension will ease up once the transfer is final and his chip is deactivated. For now, he just pushes through, plastering a smile on his face and babbling while carefully watching the steaks so as not to overcook them.

He’s prepared the steak a hundred times, he even taught Derek how to make them as one of the few dishes he’s now able to cook, yet he’s still nervous. He wants this to be perfect. He wants his dad to get that look of pure happiness when he takes the first bite.

He serves the three plates and they all take a seat. There’s a stilted moment of hesitation, like they’re all waiting for something. Maybe a speech or a blessing. But it passes and Stiles cuts into the steak. Red juice spills out, revealing perfectly pink middle and he knows he nailed it.

They don’t talk much, the silence being interrupted only with clinking of knives against the plates and occasional _it’s so good_ from his dad.

Once the plates are empty, Stiles throws them in the sink and brings his home-made tiramisu from the fridge. They half through their desserts, when Stiles catches Derek giving him a meaningful look.

“Not now,” Stiles mouths and Derek frowns. It’s just so peaceful. He doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He’s not ready to face his dad’s rightful wrath, not ready for the lecture. _What were you thinking Stiles, you’re out of your mind. He’s not the man for you_ , he can almost hear it.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers back imploringly.

“Shhh.”

“You’re only making it weird,”

“No, you’re making it weird,” Stiles hisses back.

“What are you two whispering about,” Stiles’ dad asks curiously with a slightly amused expression.

He looks at Derek, who nods encouragingly and places his hand on his thigh under the table.

“Fine,” he relents. “It’s just that, I just wanted to tell you, that… Um, Derek and I, we’re sort of… together,” he finishes lamely.

“Okay…?” he says, clearly waiting for Stiles to continue.

“That’s it, I guess… Wait, you knew?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not blind,” he smiles.

“But – you’re not mad?”

He sighs and leans back. “No. I mean, the circumstances are hardly ideal but… I just want you to be happy. That’s all that matters.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, dumbfounded. “Thank you,” he manages. Suddenly it feels like a huge weight he didn’t even know was there has been lifted from his chest and he takes it a shaky breath. He doesn’t know what to say, not sure even he could even push the words through his constricted throat so he just looks at his dad, hoping it conveys all the things he’s feeling.

They finish their desserts in silence. “It’s been a long day,” his dad says as he helps Stiles load the dishwasher. “I think I’m going to turn in early. Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed anyway.”

They all need some time to decompress, absorb the emotions of the day. It’s barely even dark outside when they say goodbyes to his dad and slip under the covers of their bed. Instead of turning his back to Derek so that he can hug him from behind, he lies on his side, facing the werewolf. He can hardly make out his face in the dim light, but he sees his green eyes shine, watching him.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks and runs his hand up and down Stiles back.

“Yeah… I’m great actually,” he scoots even closer. It’s hot under the cover, more so with Derek radiating his werewolf heat.

“So… I know it’s not exactly official yet, and that we said we would wait but….” he trails off, sure Derek will get his meaning. They have been saving sex for only after Stiles is free again but they weren’t exactly celibate either. As it turns out, almost three years is a long time and he is young and horny. It started with kissing that led to making out. From there it was only a step to handjobs and blowjobs. Still, they have been saving _the grand finale_ , as Stiles likes to call it.

“Are you sure?” Derek asks after a long time, his tone serious.

“Yeah, but only if you want. We’ve waited long enough, I would probably survive a couple of days more,” Stiles teases.

He sees Derek smile in the dark and he finally pulls him closer. “Come here.”

Stiles doesn’t have to be told twice. He plasters himself over Derek, meeting his mouth for a kiss. It’s nothing like the pecks they exchange during the day. It’s deep, and hungry, with Derek’s tongue exploring the inside of Stiles’ mouth, tasting him.

Stiles’ cock immediately fills and Stiles rubs himself against Derek’s side, seeking friction, moaning into the kiss. Derek chuckles at his eagerness and helps him out of the shirt. The pants follow immediately, freeing his erection. He then wiggles out of his own clothes, revealing his muscled body. Stiles is kind of glad that the darkness hides his bony, fragile form so that he doesn’t feel too inadequate next to Derek.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek murmurs, as if sensing his unease. They lay back down on the bed, on top of the covers this time. They’re exploring their bodies with their hands, while resuming their kiss. Derek grabs and kneads Stiles’ ass, gently running the finger of his other hand over his opening. The feeling sends a shock of pleasure through him and he tries to push down against the teasing finger.

“Wait,” Derek rolls away, leaving Stiles way too cold in the middle of the bed. He opens the nightstand drawer and pulls out a small bottle of lube.

Stiles watches in fascination as Derek coats his fingers with a generous layer of lube and he gets on all fours, exposing his ass in the air. Unexpected fear coils in his stomach, making his breath hitch. He suddenly feels like he’s back in the barracks, left to the mercy of his overseer, just trying to survive and waiting for it to end. He clamps the feeling down immediately, curling his fist in the soft sheets, grounding himself back in present.

By his side he senses Derek hesitate. Eventually though, Derek lays a hand on his lower back, gently guiding him to turn over, and lays him on his back.

“I want to see you,” he murmurs. Stiles takes a deep breath, feeling his nerves dissipate. He keeps his eyes locked with Derek’s and nods slightly.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Derek leans down and kisses him again, obviously distracting him when the first lubed finger breaches him. Still, Stiles hips jerk involuntarily at the strange intrusion. Derek is working him slowly and persistently and soon Stiles is writhing impatiently.

When the second finger joins, the stretch and burn make Stiles gasp. Derek stills, waiting for Stiles to adjust, before resuming his thrusting. By the time Derek gets to three fingers, Stiles is sweating and kind of worried he may spill his load before the main event.

“Derek, please,” Stiles whines. Derek pulls out his fingers, leaving Stiles feeling unpleasantly empty. Stiles watches him struggle with the condom package with his slippery fingers.

“Oh, gimme that,” he tears the package quickly and hands the condom to Derek, who puts it on and applies another layer of lube.

Stiles lays back down and Derek enters him infuriatingly slowly, inch by inch, until he is fully sheathed inside him. He stops moving then, his face so close to Stiles’ his breath tickles his face.

“Okay?” he asks again and Stiles only manages a small nod. He feels like he’s going out of his mind and just wants Derek to _move_.

Derek does, finally, his rhytm leisurely and gentle. Stiles lets go of the blanket and grabs Derek’s biceps instead. Slowly, Derek picks up the pace, using his hand to stroke Stiles with every thrust. Soon Derek is pounding him in earnest and Stiles knows he can’t go hold on any longer.

“Derek, I’m gonna…”

Derek strokes him even harder, his thumb flicking over the head of Stiles’ dick. Stiles arches and comes, his whole body seizing with pleasure. Hot spurs of cum splatter his stomach and he goes limp like a ragdoll. It doesn’t take long for Derek to follow. He grunts and bites down on Stiles’ shoulder. The pain startles Stiles from his warm fuzzy afterglow but when he feels they’re just blunt human teeth, he sags back down.

Derek collapses next to him, slinging his arm over Stiles. They’re both panting and it takes Stiles embarrassingly long to get his breathing under control.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, “I shouldn’t have… I should have asked you…”

“It’s fine. It just startled me… I liked it.” And he did. He twists his head to look at the teeth imprints and smiles. They’re going to fade soon but it still makes him feel like belongs. Derek’s.

Ignoring the sticky cum on his stomach, he wraps his legs around Derek, pressing against him.

“I liked it, too.” Derek whispers.

“Hmm, I could tell,” Stiles mumbles. He’s already drifting to sleep. Before he does, though, he lifts his head to look at Derek.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you were upset that this story ends here, but as I said in the comments, I never planned for this to be very long. I basically wrote everything I wanted and I’m not too unhappy with how it turned out. I’m really just starting to write, this is my second ever fic, and I have other ideas and stories I want to explore. So don’t be too sad. At least I gave you a little Sterek smuttiness :)  
> Anyway, I’m planning another Sterek fic featuring all my favorites – hurt/abused Stiles, protective Derek, hurt/comfort, angst, basically an a/b/o slave fic. If that’s something you think you’d enjoy, consider subscribing so you don’t miss it.  
> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting, it’s been a blast, I enjoyed every single one of your comments and kudos. Without you, I would never feel motivated to continue writing. With how little time I have, it’s always a struggle to make myself be creative, but you keep me going!

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think, I love hearing from you!
> 
> You can also visit me at https://paxterhobber.tumblr.com/ to read more about me and my works and for good fic recommendations


End file.
